No Sacrifice
by Pericula Ludus
Summary: Dís, daughter of Thráin, learns of her sons' deaths in the Battle of the Five Armies. This is not a happy story. It focuses on the emotional aftermath of the deaths in the Battle of the Five Armies. Expect lots of grief, guilt, anger and emotional pain. While there is comfort, it does not magically erase the hurt. Please be aware of this before you read.
1. Chapter 1

"Thorin is dead."

It was a statement, not a question. She said it without preamble, not even welcoming the dwarves in front of her. She did not need the messenger's confirmation. She knew. Had known ever since her brother left the Ered Luin to go on that fateful quest. That doomed bid to reclaim a lost home, a mountain, a hoard of gold. They had said their farewells long before this wintry afternoon.

The look in Balin's eyes as they met hers confirmed her fears before he could nod or say a word. Behind him, Dwalin bowed his head. Dís closed her eyes. Just a moment, a moment of peace as she took in the news of her eldest brother's death. Muffled, as if a sturdy door separated them, she heard Balin report to her.

"…he died a valiant death in battle, Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain." He concluded.

Dís took a deep breath before answering:

"He achieved his dream. He served Durin's folk well in the end."

Balin nodded his assent, but she knew that her words were hollow. Her voice sounded flat and dull in her own ears. Her head seemed to be filled with a viscous matter that sloshed around slowly between her ears.

There would be a time for grief later. It was not here, not out in the open with half the town watching. A town that she had governed in her brother's absence. A town that would continue to look towards her for guidance. Particularly now. Now that they had received confirmation of their leader's death. She could hear the whispers behind her. Could feel the eyes upon her and the dwarves who had been sent to carry the news from Erebor to her. This was not a place for emotions. This was not a place for displaying weakness, no matter how desperate the news. She might not look the part in her work clothes and heavy woollen cape, but she was royalty. And she had learned what that meant through many decades filled with bad news.

Even those who lived and worked inside the mountain seemed to have noticed the arrival of the delegation by now, as more and more people filled the small square where Dís had rushed to meet the delegation from Erebor. She took in the small group of dwarves before her. They looked weary and defeated, wearing travel-stained cloaks and standing next to mud-speckled ponies. None would meet her eye. She would have to see to it that they were made comfortable. Details of her brother's demise and the fate of her sons' newly reclaimed kingdom could follow later, preferably conveyed by her cousins in the comfort of her own home. Looking to her left, she gestured to one of the dwarrowdams who had aided her greatly in the running of the town ever since Thorin's departure.

"Runa, could you…"

"Lady Dís," Balin interrupted.

She looked up sharply at the formal title to see her older cousin fiddle with the ends of his luxuriant white beard.

"Lady Dís," he repeated, voice strained. Or did she imagine that? The liquid swirling in her skull seemed to increase its velocity. She felt nauseous.

"There were great losses in the battle."

She had stopped breathing. Her heart pounded loudly. Her pulse seemed to reverberate through her entire body. She willed him to go on and at the same time found herself hoping that the silence would never end. Time was strangely distorted. An age had passed and yet it was too soon, too much, too quickly, when Balin took in a deep breath and continued:

"Your sons died defending their king."

His voice seemed to echo in a great cavern. She looked at him. He seemed to shrink. Shorter and older than she had ever seen him before. His eyes wide, looking up at her, distraught. The square had fallen eerily silent. Dís just stared at the old dwarf in front of her. He flinched. He seemed to wait for her to say something, to react somehow. She couldn't. She didn't know how. There was nothing to be said or done. Her sons. Her young, bright, charming sons. Dead. She did not seem to be part of her own body. She watched the scene from the outside. She did not feel. There was nothing to feel. Dís was just a hollow shell. Standing in the gathering dusk, surrounded by her people and yet leagues away from anyone. Alone, utterly alone.

Dís did not hope. She had seen too much, had lost too many to still give in to hope, to still believe that there was justice in this world. There was no mistake. This was reality. Nobody came back from the dead. Her sons were dead. Her lively boys had gone to the stone.

She was vaguely aware of Dwalin's presence at her side. It felt familiar to have him next to her. At her left and just a half step behind. Guarding her. Shielding her. From what? There was nothing left in the world that could hurt her. There was nothing left in this world. Her family was spent. Her mother, her grandfather, her father, her brothers, her sons. Her sons. Dead. She was the only one left. The only one who was not yet stone.

A young dwarf stepped forward from the group of travellers.

"Lady Dís, may I express my deepest condolences and my regret at the passing of your sons. Such noble lords and skilled fighters! Now they are sleeping in Erebor, once again in the ancient halls…"

They had not passed. Nobody simply _passed_. Dwarves died. They died and were given back to the stone whence they came. They were not sleeping. She knew death and it was no sleep. It did not come gently. The euphemisms this child used were doing her sons no favour. She looked at the speaker icily. He was still prattling on about armies and battles, valour and honour like those things mattered. Like anything mattered. Anything but her sons. Her _dead_ sons.

"The valiant young princes, such shining examples of…"

"Fíli and Kíli. Their names are Fíli and Kíli."

A collective intake of breath could be heard when she spoke for the first time.

"Yes, yes, anyways," the barely-bearded youth continued, clearly flummoxed by the interruption, "My father and I would like to express our gratitude and honour your great sacrifice…"

"Enough!"

The young dwarf in front of her cringed at her sharp word. He was shorter and broader than both of her sons with none of their muscle evident under his fine garments and none of their expressive features in his doughy face. But he had dark hair and Durin-blue eyes like her brother whose name he bore.

"It was no sacrifice, Thorin, son of _Dáin_." Dís spat his father's name like an insult. "I did not give them willingly."[1]

She was shaking. She was unable to continue, could not stand this any longer. The world had shrunk to encompass just her and her sons. She was vaguely aware of all the people around her, but she had no strength to face them, talk to them, reassure them, could hardly even see them. She had to get out, had to get away, be alone. Blindly, Dís started walking, mechanically with a measured stride. Don't run. Don't look. Just go home. She did not notice Dwalin holding back young Thorin and growling at him. She was not really aware that he stayed at her side on her way home through the streets of the small town. There were people around her, but they did not matter. She just had to get home.

She opened the door to her house, walked through the kitchen, always too small for a family with three always-hungry males. She stood in the lounge and suddenly realised that she had nowhere to go from here. She was not sure where she had been heading, but it did not feel like she had reached her destination.

There was only cold ash in the fireplace and everything was neat and tidy. The usually cosy room with its stone walls and dark timbers felt empty. There was nobody home. There would never be anybody home again. This was not a home anymore, just a house.

Slowly, Dís walked over to the fireplace. Rekindle the fire. Do something useful. But why? She grasped the stone mantel, willing herself to calm down, to breathe deeply. It was no use. There was a persistent buzzing in her ears, a swirling in her head. Her vision was oddly narrowed and she found herself unable to see anything but what was right in front of her.

A small wooden dog. Kíli had given it to her decades ago. It wasn't a very good piece of work, the legs slightly uneven, the face lopsided. He had gotten much better with his woodwork over the years. Nevertheless, this little dog still had pride of place on the mantelpiece. It had always seemed friendly. Now the dog was leering at her. A reminder of simpler times. A reminder of a time when Kíli had still been alive.

With a scream, she swiped everything off the mantelpiece. The various odds and ends clattered to the ground. Something shattered. Dís did not care. She hit the wall with her hand and screamed again. It did nothing to relieve the pressure inside her. The swirling in her head intensified. She had to hold herself upright with both hands. There was so much in her head. And yet there was only darkness, only a dense fog. She would like to pass out, would like to just not feel anymore. She was granted no such mercy.

It was all in her mind, like waves that kept crashing over her. Everything seemed to move faster and faster, and yet she was still standing in her own house, clutching the mantelpiece. Trying to anchor herself, to be somewhere, to be someone. There was overwhelming pain, but it was all inside her, without any physical manifestation.

She smacked her forehead against the rough stone wall. It felt good. A sharp pain that reverberated through her skull. It was a relief. She sobbed.

She hit her head against the wall again. And again. Harder. Pain. Pain was good. Pain meant that she could still feel. A strangled noise escaped her throat.

The next time, her forehead didn't hit the wall. It hit flesh. She growled in annoyance. She tried again, harder. The same result. Then she just rested her head against the hand that was cushioning it against the wall.

She was sobbing freely now. Loud, angry, ugly sobs. She felt another large, calloused hand on her back, rubbing slow circles on her shoulder blade. The first hand was still resting on her temple, thumb caressing her hair

Dís half-sobbed, half-screamed, occasionally trying to hit her head against the wall again. To feel the pain, the actual, physical pain.

Without noticing how it happened, she found herself turned to face the dining table. The hand disappeared from her forehead and strong arms embraced her tightly as her face was pressed into rough fabric.

Dwalin. The smell of Dwalin. The feeling of not being alone. Of being somewhere, with someone. The tears were flowing freely now as she buried her face deeper into her cousin's tunic. Deeper into that familiar smell.

They stood like this for a long time. Dwalin silent, though his breathing was rugged and uneven. Dís crying. She should probably stop, but she could not find it in herself to care.

Dwalin was solid, he was warm, he was real. Dís did not think she would ever want to move again. Just wait out the rest of her days in his hard embrace.

There was nobody else who would ever embrace her again. At this thought, a painful cry fought its way from Dís' lungs to her throat. She felt her knees buckle and expected to hit the ground, but Dwalin simply held her, pressed against him, his arms supporting her back.

Time did not seem to pass as usual, but eventually Dís found her tears slowing. She was gasping for breath and felt weaker than she ever had before, still feebly hanging in Dwalin's arms.

Dwalin picked her up like a small child; her head still nestled against his shoulder, she let herself retreat into deep reverie as she was carried to the sofa. She was gently set down, a pillow stuffed beneath her head. Her feet were gently lifted and her sturdy boots removed. She let herself be treated like an infant. There was no fight in her. Appearances did not matter and she did not have the strength to perform even the most menial of tasks. Her legs were finally set down and she found herself being covered by a warm patchwork quilt. Rich, colourful fabrics were all around her.

"I'll be right back," Dwalin whispered, pressing the lightest of kisses on her battered forehead. His voice sounded far away and she did not feel the touch as acutely as if it was her own head he had kissed. A different person lay on her sofa.

Dís was floating. Or sinking maybe. There was no way to be sure. There was something soft around her. She felt cold, and oddly, not quite aware of her body. Maybe she could die. Just sink into the softness. Just give in to the darkness.

There were sounds in the background. Clattering, hissing like a flame being lit. A drawer in the kitchen. The door of a cupboard. She did not care. It did not matter. Dís was floating.

She became aware of steps next to her. A heavy weight was eased on the ground by her head and then a clink like pottery being set down.

She felt a large finger smear something cool across her brow. Arnica.

She knew the smell. She used arnica a lot. It came with being the mother of strong-willed, adventurous boys. First, they used to toddle into furniture. Then the climbing phase began. Actually, that never really stopped. There was always a bruise to heal. As they got bigger, so did their fights. There were constant disagreements with some neighbour's lad. They each learned a trade eventually and in the learning lay accidents and more bruises and scrapes. Once they started weapons training, they always sported an assortment of small injuries. Fíli had taken to swords and axes with zeal and showed a natural talent, but constantly pushed himself to work harder, to become better, often to the point of exhaustion. His younger brother had much more difficulty, skinny and small for his age he was barely able to wield even the tiniest sword Thorin had fashioned for him. Kíli too found his fighting form eventually and together the brothers were formidable warriors indeed. They still came home moaning, beaten and bloodied more often than she cared to remember. But there was little a dollop of arnica could not make better. Or a mother's touch. Mostly a mother's touch really. She was always able to help her boys. Until now. Until they went off and got killed.

Dís shuddered. She felt her muscles tense and shivered uncontrollably.

"There, there," Dwalin murmured, stroking his hand over Dís' hair that was escaping her usually meticulous braids.

He was not good with words. He was not the bright brother. And yet he sensed that there was something he could give Dís in these terrible first hours. Some form of quiet companionship maybe, something that did not require the right words. He suspected that there were no right words anyways. There would be time later, time for his brother, for Dáin's son, for all the others that would doubtlessly want to intrude, to talk to Dís. For now she should just be a grieving sister and mother. He could give her little else, but he could give her that opportunity. She was the last one left for him to protect. He had failed all of his other charges. His kings, his princes. And the one he had guarded from what he feared most… Dwalin shuddered. That was the worst of his failures.

Dwalin tried to get Dís to drink some tea. That was something you did with distressed people. Chamomile tea with lots of honey. That was supposed to be calming. And Dís liked sweet things. She did not seem to taste the tea at all. Dwalin suspected that she did not really notice that she was drinking it. She was awake, but her expression was vacant.

He waited. He was not sure what he was waiting for. But he was good at waiting. He had guarded many people, had kept many long watches. Sitting motionless, but always alert and ready to move at the slightest noise. After all these decades, it came naturally. Balin said that was because there was not much in his brain that could distract him. That was not true. There were many thoughts. But they were usually dark and he did not speak about them often, not even to his brother. It was easier to keep those things hidden, to only think about them when he was waiting for something to happen. These past weeks had seen him take many watches. The thoughts kept him awake. The thoughts were darker than ever, darker than the ones he had had after Azanulbizar, darker even than the ones that accompanied the terrible warfare in the tunnels and caves that lead up to that final battle in front of the gates of Moria.

Dís was not moving. She was not asleep; her eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. Maybe it was good to give her some time to escape into her reverie. Maybe it was wrong to let her do so. Dwalin was unsure about the correct course of action. Usually, he had Balin at his side to make such decisions. Balin knew what to do in any situation. He was the brains, Dwalin was just the muscle. And his muscles did him no good here. But Balin was not here in the house now. Dwalin had insisted that he wanted to be left alone with Dís. They had talked about this at length. In the end, Balin had conceded that he had never been as close to their cousin as Dwalin was and that it might just be a good plan to let him handle this delicate matter. Or maybe Balin had simply agreed because he did not want to bear the brunt of Dís wrath himself. It was unlike Balin to give in to his younger brother. Whatever the reason, Dwalin was on his own now. Had wanted to be on his own with Dís because somehow he had thought that he could make her suffering more bearable. He was not so sure now.

Nothing was gained by dwelling on that though. The small cottage was now enveloped in darkness and becoming uncomfortably cold. With a sigh, Dwalin got up from the floor and moved to build up a fire in the hearth.

In the dim light, he assessed the situation in the small lounge. It was a mere crofter's cottage, not much of a royal residence, but Thorin had insisted on leading a life that was no more different from his people's than it absolutely had to be. Dís boots were still sitting where he had put them upon removing them from her feet. With a sad smile, Dwalin picked them up and put them next to his own on the rug in the kitchen. This was so unlike Dís. She never walked into the house with her boots on and constantly chastised her boys for doing so.

As he turned to light the oil lamp on the table, Dwalin's foot brushed one of the items Dís had scattered around the room in he earlier fit of rage. He bent to pick it up and found that it was the wooden dog Kíli had carved so many years ago. It had not survived the fall unscathed. The back was cracked, the little figurine split in two. Neither head nor tail, nor any of the delicate legs had taken any damage. How strange. How fitting. He closed his hand around the two parts of the small animal, clenching his fist as if he was willing the pieces to mend.

* * *

[1]Following the loss of her five sons in World War 1, Amy Beechey of Lincoln, England was presented to King George V and honoured by the King and Queen for her immense sacrifice - but despite her great pride in her sons, she was reluctant to accept such terminology. "It was no sacrifice, Ma'am," she told Queen Mary. "I did not give them willingly."


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you very much for reading! This is the first time I have ever shared one of my stories with anyone. Every single view has been a pure delight!_

* * *

The day Fíli made her a mother, a healthy babe with a tuft of blond hair and aquamarine eyes. A laughing Heptifíli bouncing is son on his knees, holding out his hands for him to take his first wobbly steps. The serious look in little Fíli's eyes the day he became a big brother. The tiny infant that had been Kíli, on the verge of life and death for so long, but always alert, always squirming. Her younger son's impatience when he was not able to keep up with his older brother. Finding them curled up together in the corner of the bed. Thorin laughing despite himself as he was tackled by the two small dwarflings on one of his rare visits. Heptifíli handing them their very first tiny wooden swords and the eager looks in their eyes as he explained to them the responsibility that came with such weapons. Fíli half-carrying his brother home after yet another ill-fated exploration of the woods, smiling sheepishly as she chided them, but Kíli already grinning again by the time she was tending to his injuries. Kíli running off from their schooling, not out of spite, but simply because he enjoyed running, hated being confined. Moving in with Thorin, a widow with two small sons. Helping them adapt to their stern uncle who was trying to replace their jovial father. Revealing to them that they were princes, that their uncle had chosen them as his heirs. Kíli now always taking the blame for their mischief, always bearing his punishments with a cheeky grin. The four of them growing together, as a family and as leaders of their people. Milestones reached, goals achieved, challenges overcome, a series of events playing out in her mind.

Then she was saying her farewells again, sending each one of them off on this quest with just a few words. "Go with honour and without regrets," she had told her brother. She had opposed this journey to Erebor vehemently, but now that he was leaving, she wanted him to know that she supported him to whatever end and that she was proud of him even though he had gone against her wishes.

"Remember that you are the mithril of my heart, Fíli. Use your mind and your strength to stand up for what is right and please make sure your brother is safe."

"Remember that you are the mithril of my heart, Kíli. Use your energy and your spirit to inspire those around you and please keep supporting your brother."

The last memory Dís had of her children were their solemn faces that could not quite conceal the sparkle of excitement in their eyes. Their arms round her neck and then the view of them slowly riding away, disappearing into the East.

She needed to know the rest of the story. With an effort, she sat up. She was surprised to not find Dwalin sitting on the floor anymore. He was standing by the table.

"Dwalin, come. Sit."

Her voice sounded rough. His head snapped around. It was rare that anybody could surprise him, but it looked like he had hardly been aware of her presence at all.

"Tell me… tell me how they…" She could not finish that sentence, but he understood.

"Aye," Dwalin sighed, "I will." He lit the lamp on the table, his motions slow and deliberate. The small room was bathed in a warm, orange light. Dwalin squared his shoulders and awkwardly stalked towards her, sitting down heavily on the other end of the sofa.

"There was a great battle," he began, all too predictably.

"The dragon – it was still there," Dís breathed.

"No. Smaug is dead. That is, yes, he was still there. But he was not there when… Ach!"

"Did the dragon… was it… Are they burned dwarves?"

"No! No, they are not. Not burned. No… not that… They were properly buried. We gave them back to the stone in Erebor. Smaug was not... He was still in the mountain when we got there. We made it into the mountain and he was there, just sitting on his treasure."

"My_ grandfather's_ treasure… the gold of _our_ people… But how could you reclaim Erebor with so few with the dragon still inside?"

"He realised who we were. He suspected that we were in league with the men of Esgaroth. He was so angry… He flew towards the Long Lake and laid ruin to the town. It burned. Just like Dale. It was burned to tinder. All the people, the families there…"

"No! Not that! How could you, Dwalin? How could Thorin? Has our own people's suffering taught him nothing? Is there no end to his folly! Do you warriors have to keep heaping sorrow upon innocents? Tell me you killed the beast after that! Tell me you fabled warriors were useful for once! Tell me it was the last of its atrocities!"

"Aye… that it was... But no dwarf laid hand or axe on him. Smaug was slain by Bard of Esgaroth. A descendent of Girion, Lord of Dale. For all the long decades of dreading the dragon, it was all over rather quickly."

"Oh how can you say that, Dwalin? Do not pretend you are that callous! Think of all the men, think of all their suffering! First Dale and now Esgaroth! Their second loss so soon after the first. But what about your company? Did everybody…?"

"We lived. All were in good health. Except… well, anyways… we stayed in Erebor. Oh Dís, it is wonderful! Badly damaged, but still. It's… it's just… well, it's home."

"A dearly bought home. What happened? What was this battle about?"

"The gold. Oh Dís, the gold… There was so much of it. Mounds upon mounds. It was beautiful. It was everywhere. It was… it was too much. Thorin. He… he was… it… it got him. The gold."

Dís gasped audibly at that, hand clutched to her mouth. A sound, half moan, half sob escaped her lips. Dwalin put his hand on her arm, but continued with his report.

"He was not himself. He was vengeful and bitter. He could only see the treasure. He would not let go of any of it. When the men of Esgaroth approached him asking for compensation… he denied it. He turned dangerous and violent, even against… well… even against our own company. After our journey, after everything… he could only see the treasure. He was… despite his promises and his commitment, despite all he went through, despite everything… in the end he was just like Thrór."

Dwalin buried his head in his hands. Dís knew how close he and Thorin had been. Closer maybe than she had ever been to her brother. Their relationship had never had to be mended and recovered from the ruins. She knew how much Dwalin had looked up to her brother, more than just a cousin to him, his captain and his king even in the darkest days of their exile. It must have come as a shock to him. She had lost family to the dragon sickness before. It was terrifying.

"Dwalin, " she said gently, "There was nothing you could have done. It's our weakness. It is in our blood."

"No!" She flinched at his sharp interruption. "It is not in your blood. It is _not_! The lads, they were fine. Impressed, but solely by the beauty of Erebor, not by the gold. We all looked through the treasure chambers. All of us were enthralled, Durin or no. But the lads… They just picked up two golden harps and sat there, playing music. They had nary an eye for all the riches. They would rather enjoy playing together than all the gold in Erebor."

That little anecdote made her smile sadly. At least her sons had been themselves. It was a strange relief. At the same time the knowledge that there was a choice, that it was not just down to fate, made her despair for her brother.

"In the end, we had men and elves on our doorstep, all demanding gold. Thorin would never give it to them. He called upon Dáin instead. Dáin brought half a thousand of his warriors."

"Not to aid his kin, I reckon… The gold, the gold was drawing him in too. And he was letting it rule him."

"He wasn't the only one… Just before the three armies commenced battle, we received word that there was another one about to arrive. They had come crawling out the Misty Mountains. They even brought wargs. They wanted to destroy, destroy every one of us that they had not killed already."

Even in the dim light, Dwalin must have registered the shock on her face at his grim words. He leaned in towards her. Their eyes met. She could see anger in his, anger at all these developments that threatened to destroy –nay, had destroyed– all that he held dear, but even more so, despair. He had always been her rock. Stoic, unbending, reliable in all circumstances. Dwalin was just there through everything she, her family and her people had endured over the years. Steadfast. Dwalin did not despair. But he had never been the same after the War with the Orcs. He carried many scars from the underground warfare in the caverns of the Misty Mountains, scars that impressed and scared in equal measure, but she had long suspected that his real wounds remained unseen. A goblin army must have been his worst nightmare come true.

"What happened?" Dís promted when Dwalin remained silent. He closed his eyes for the duration of a breath and then, having steadied himself visibly, continued in his report, every bit the old warrior.

"The commanders, Dáin, Bard and even Thranduil, they agreed that we had a common enemy now. Despite their demands, despite everything the elves have done, that… that vermin is worse. We had sealed off the gate. The three armies assembled on top of the craigs on either side of the valley. Dwarves and men on one, elves on the other, with just a light rear-guard at the mouth. It worked. They drew them in. At first it worked. The… the beasts took heavy losses, surrounded by all of the free folk. Only in the second wave did they truly attack. It was carnage. Dwarves, men and elves there were, but even all of them together were outnumbered five to one. We could not stand back. They were fighting and dying because of us. We were few inside the Mountain, but we threw down the wall and killed all that had advanced that far."

He paused, eyes closed once more. Dís found herself both anticipating and dreading the next part of the tale. The part that was sure to include her sons' deaths.

"Thorin cut through the goblin ranks like a diamond through copper. The lads were in his wake."

Her boys had been with their uncle. They had all been together. Her family. Sister-sons indeed.

"Bolg, son of Azog, was the leader of those demons. Thousands of them. He was surrounded by the tallest and foulest of them all. Had them guard his precious skin. Thorin and the lads, they went straight for them."

Dís' gasp interrupted him. Tears were streaming down her face again. In the eye of the storm, the centre of the battle. Where else would she expect her sons to be? She herself had told them so. Stand up for what is right. Keep supporting your brother. Why oh why? She should have told them to hide, should have taught them to run. They could have run! In fact, running was among Kíli's greatest joys. He never stopped. Running, running, always running. But always running towards trouble, not away from it. She tore at her beard until Dwalin's hands captured hers. He continued. Soldiered on to that predictable but unbearable end.

"It was chaos. Melee. Each dwarf, man, elf fighting many at once. It was Azanulbizar all over again. I did not see when Thorin was cut down. I was not there. I failed him. He had many wounds. When I finally saw him on the ground, Fíli and Kíli were standing over him, back to back, defending his body. Loyal. Loyal to the end. To the end and beyond."

She was crying in earnest once more and Dwalin pulled her against his body. The smell and feel of Dwalin still spoke of safety even when every word he uttered only shattered her world further.

"I tried to get to them, Dís, I tried. Not hard enough. Not good enough to get through that battle. Once again not good enough. It wasn't us in the end. The eagles turned the tide. Giant eagles as our allies, a hundred or so descending upon our enemies. It really was everyone united against the darkness. The havoc they wreaked gave us hope and endurance after strength had failed us… I got closer then. The lads were still standing. They were still fighting. Grim and determined. They moved as one. Dís, it would have been beautiful had our situation not been that dire. Oh Dís…"

He grabbed her tighter. She could not determine whether that was due to her renewed sobbing at his praise for her sons, or due to the silent tears she could feel falling on her head. Dwalin never cried. Fíli and Kíli had always been emotional. Thorin had shed tears in anger. Balin's eyes got wet when he recalled the injustices done to their people. Even the oldest, most stoic of warriors had been overcome with grief when the survivors of Azanulbizar returned. Dís recalled Dwalin's eyes at that moment. They had met hers over the heads of the assembled crowd, weary and broken, but dry and still full of the promise to protect her despite all that had happened. Dwalin never cried. Not until now.

"I did not realise, but Thorin was still alive. He was bleeding from so many wounds I had mistaken him for dead. But our last ally arrived at the scene. Beorn, a great bear we had met on our journey. He went straight for Thorin, breaking those great monsters like pieces of pig iron. Beorn carried him to safety."

Her brother had been carried to _safety_. Her brother who had instigated all of this! Her brother, but not _her sons_. Oh how she regretted his death! How she wished he had remained alive long enough to suffer for his deeds! Her sons' deaths were his fault! Oh how she would have made him suffer.

"Kíli was distracted for just a moment. He could not tear his eyes from Thorin. It was just a moment… He could not see it coming…"

Dís felt the familiar sensation of being apart from her body again. This was not happening to her. Some other mother was sitting on her sofa, hearing of her baby's death. She felt empathy for her, but could not quite imagine her pain. Nobody could bear that level of pain. Nobody should have to. Children should not die before their parents. And still there was Dwalin, never faltering in his account of the battle, now almost eager to get on with it.

"Fíli could though. He could see it. The biggest and foulest of Bolg's guard threw his spear right at Kíli. There was nothing he could have done. Kíli would not have heard him. So Fíli pushed him, pushed him out of the way and took the spear in his own shoulder."

Dís heard a scream and felt a stinging at her chin as Dwalin once more grabbed hold of her hands. At least Fíli had died protecting his brother. At least that small mercy had been granted to him.

"Fíli fell to his knees, but was back up in an instant, checking to see if Kíli was alright. Only he wasn't. He _wasn't_… That guard had a morning star in his other hand. As his throw went astray, he attacked with that instead. Kíli never had a chance. Never. He was crushed before he realised what was happening. I finally made it to where they were. I had lost all my weapons. I picked up an axe. I killed that monster. I killed him, Dís, I did that! But I was too late again. Bolg had turned his attention to the remaining Durin. His sword was in Fíli's neck as I was freeing my axe from his guard's body. I was too late! I wanted him to kill me then… I did not want to live... But Beorn, Beorn decided that for me. He killed Bolg. I did not even do that. I did nothing! Just knelt next to Fíli. I held him. I did that. I tried, Dís, I tried. But there was so much blood... So much blood! I could do nothing. I was there, but there was nothing I could do. It would not stop. I was too late. He was dead after three more heartbeats."

Screaming, howling. She was punching Dwalin with all her might. It could not be! Never. Not her sons. Not like that. Crushed and cut. Not her sons. Not such despair! No comfort at all. No solace in anything. Her sons, alone, alone in the dark. Why? Why like that?

"It was quick, Dís. At least it was that. Fíli… Fíli died quickly…"

He needed her to know. He needed her to find some comfort. Deaths in battle were never as pretty as the songs made them out to be. They were ugly, unbelievably ugly, all of them, and he had witnessed many. But these deaths… These deaths… Dwalin had seen them in his mind constantly since that fateful day. It had been torture. Well-deserved torture. But recounting them out loud was even worse. He needed her to know the whole story. He needed to go on. But for the moment, all he could do was hold her and accept the punches she threw with a strength that would have been surprising had he not known of her continuous work in the forge. He would bear it. He would bear anything. Anything she could do to him was too small a punishment for what he had failed to do. And certainly too small a punishment for what he had done.

"Kíli…," Dís finally croaked.

With a sigh, Dwalin fulfilled her unspoken request.

"The morning star… it… it had shattered his spine... He was awake when I got to him, but he could not feel, could not move. He was… broken…"

The pieces of the little wooden dog seemed to burn a hole into his pocket at these words. Dís stared at him with such dread in her eyes that he did not dare to continue. The worst, the worst of everything. Fíli unable to protect his brother. Fíli dead, his last sight Kíli being killed in front of his eyes, his last thoughts undoubtedly painful and full of guilt. Kíli, without his brother, without any of the agility and the energy that defined him, so afraid, so alone. Lost, all of them. Lost in the dark. The all-encompassing evil. All of them failures in what they had set out to do. No protection. No youthful energy. Nothing. All lost. Failures. But his failure worst of all. Dwalin steeled himself to continue his tale when Dís spoke again.

"Did I kill them? Did they die for my home, for the glory of reclaiming it, or even just for the joy it would give me to see it again? Did _I_ kill them with my tales of Erebor?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Was the boy right? Did I sacrifice them? Did I sacrifice them on the altar of my memories? Dwalin! Did I kill my sons?"

Dís was agitated now. She had sat up and was clutching the collar of Dwalin´s tunic. She was shouting, her voice nearly breaking. Dwalin just stared at her, stared into her glazed eyes. Tears were now streaming down his face, even as his cousin's seemed to have dried up for the moment. He wanted to sob, to break down, but he knew that was not an option. It never had been and certainly was not an option now.

"No, Dís, no. You did not kill them… I did. I failed them. I was not fast enough to save Fíli. And Kíli… Oh Dís, I killed Kíli! I _killed _him! Forgive me. I failed. I killed your sons! Forgive me, Dís, forgive me…"

The words had drained him. He stared at her helplessly. There was no way back now. He had confessed his deeds. It took her a while to process the information. Then the anger came.

"Don't you dare, Dwalin! Don't you dare put your grief above mine! Don't you dare make this about you! They were nothing to you! You are not their father! They are not even your sister-sons! You had _nothing_ to do with them and now you make this about your troubles. For once, this is not about you. You don't matter in this, Dwalin! These are _my_ sons we are talking about. My sons I want to _mourn_. Do I not deserve this time? Is this not a dam's role? To mourn where you _warriors_ fail? Will you take this from me as well? Make this about yourself? No, Dwalin! Don't you dare! They did not need a great warrior to take care of them. They were more than capable of defending themselves. Your inadequacy is _irrelevant._ Your petty guilt has no place here. Do not try to force your forgiveness from me! This is _my_ time to grieve!"

Dwalin was stunned. His back rigid, he just sat and stared.

Dís had jumped up and was standing in front of him, every bit the formidable warrior her brother had been. Thorin and Dís, they were so alike in their anger. He had expected anger. But he had not expected this. Her words cut deep. The lads _had_ mattered to him. This _was _about him. About what he had _done. _He had killed many over the years, but he liked to believe that he rarely killed without need. He did not mind the opinion of others, as long as he still knew that he was no monster. Yet this time… had he casually disposed of those dearest to him? Dís' lack of understanding was like a knife in his guts, twisted every which way with each of her words. He kept repeating her name, softly, pleadingly, but unable to stop the onslaught of her fury.

Her anger was usually reserved for Thorin. Their opinions had differed so widely. Her role in the family and their community. His overeager ambitions for their people. His strict principles. Fíli and Kíli's upbringing. Their role as princes of their folk. There were many topics that lead to their frequents arguments.

Dwalin took a secret pride in the fact that Dís would usually come to him after one of their rows. After Thorin had stormed off, she would visit Dwalin in the forge and ask for any mindless, heavy work. They rarely talked. Thorin was the talker. Once he had cooled down enough, he would come to the forge as well, sometimes narrowly avoiding Dís. He would talk, but he expected no answers. Not from Dwalin. Dwalin was good for a discussion of battles or questions of security. Thorin did not expect him to have an opinion on anything else. Did not expect him to ponder any deeper issues.

He had become lost in his thoughts. An irate Dís was still shouting and gesticulating erratically. Words, angry words, ugly words. He did not need to listen to grasp their meaning. She did not understand. How could she? How could anyone? Maybe she shouldn't. Maybe nobody should ever know. Maybe this was one of the things you took to your own grave. A grave that you hoped would find you quickly.

He was just as broken as Dís was. Why had he thought that he could comfort her? Why had he been so convinced that this was a good idea? That he might be able to lend her strength when he himself had none? Balin should be here. Balin would have the right words, would know what to do. But Balin was not in his situation. And in his situation, was there anything that could be right? Word or action, anything that was not flawed?

He did not know what to say. As usual. He just knew how to kill. Now he even doubted that he knew when to kill. But he had to do something, to say something. He had one duty left in this life and it was to Dís. He had failed everyone else. He would not fail her as well. He could not afford to be buried in his own sorrow, could not do that to her.

Dís was wearing herself out, her shouts becoming increasingly incomprehensible. Say something. Do something. Anything. Protect her. Protect her from herself.

"Umhûdizu tadaizd ku' adrûthîzd, Mahal," he started the traditional Words of Mourning, "murukhîzd udu charach bakhuzizu ra udnîn izd ana ghiluz nur."[1]

Somehow the steady rhythm of the adrûthigulûb was calming and he repeated the simple line over and over again. First softly, then louder until Dís took notice.

"Bless those who mourn, creator, shield them from the pain with your hammer and guide them to a new day."

He never thought much about his beliefs. They had little place in a life that was defined by necessity and labour. He put his hopes in the strength of his arms and the sharpness of his weapons. Anything else was not practical for the life he led. But there was a power in traditions. He had spoken the adrûthigulûb many times before, every time a family member, a friend, a comrade fell, but this time he meant the words like he had never meant them before. With every repetition he spoke with greater ardour. Shield them from the pain. Shield her from the pain. Help me shield her.

They were both on their feet now, facing each other, reciting their plea to Mahal.

"… guide them to a new day," they finished one last time. More despair than hope in their voices, but steady and coherent once more. His hands on her shoulders, her hands on his forearms, they steadied each other. Injured warriors after a fearsome battle.

"I need to know. I need you to tell me why they died," said Dís.

Dwalin nodded. Anything for her. Her outburst seemed to have calmed his cousin. She turned and went into the kitchen. He heard her handle the kettle and pour water. With a last deep breath, he went to stoke the fire and add more coals.

They sat down at the table this time. Less emotional surroundings. They faced each other over a cup of tea. A captain reporting to his queen. Dís was his queen. Not in title, but he still felt he owed her allegiance in a way that he would never owe it to Dáin.

There was a deep sadness in her eyes, but she was composed as she asked:

"Why did my sons go to their deaths? Was it the gold after all?"

"The gold gave them no joy… they were still the same when we were in Erebor, still themselves. More so than all the others.", Dwalin answered slowly, deliberately, "They still found joy in their jokes, in exploring, in music. It was not the gold. They were there for the adventure. They were there for Thorin."

"I thought I had raised them better than that! Did I not raise them to think independently? Did they just follow him like mindless cattle?"

"No… They were… loyal to Thorin", he allowed, "but they were not following blindly… they questioned him… especially Fíli. He understood. Our journey had shown him that his uncle was not infallible… He was every bit the prince… He was never like that before… He really thought for himself. They made their own decision to join the fray. They would not have done anything they didn't want to. Not with the way they had grown. They went into battle together. They went because they wanted to."

"But why did they seek out death? What was in it for them? What could have been more precious than _their own lives_?"

This was… difficult. He had repeated that question to himself too many times. He sent a silent plea to Mahal that Dís would accept the answer he had found for himself.

"It was years ago… the winter decades ago, the Fell Winter, when we went with the rangers… Fíli, he became very attached to their chieftain, Argonui…"

Dís knew this story, but Dwalin needed a moment to gather his thoughts for the part that followed, the part that was relevant. He had thought about the reason for all this death and destruction as well. Just because he had seen it before did not mean that he was immune to it. On the contrary. He had questioned and he had found an answer in what the old dúnadan had once told a young Fíli.

"We were in the land of the halflings, the Hobbits' Shire when it became clear that Argonui would not survive the winter. He was old, but Fíli, he was only in his fifties… he took it badly. He questioned why such a great man would die for such a small and insignificant people who were not all that happy we were there in the first place… he could not understand. It seemed futile to him. Fíli asked that question… and I think the answer stayed with him… I heard him repeat it to Kíli before… well, before we went into battle…"

Dís was listening intently now.

"Argonui told him, and those were the last words he spoke to Fíli… if he spoke any more with his grandson, Arathorn, afterwards, I do not know… 'We fight not for glory' he said.. 'nor riches, nor honours, but for freedom – for that alone which no honest man gives up, except with his life'… he died defending the Hobbits against wolves, orcs and the fury of winter… Fíli and Kíli died defending all the free people of Middle Earth. They died for our freedom."[2]

"Freedom…", Dís repeated, "freedom… the freedom of all the people… Was that why you all fought together? Was it that dire?"

Dwalin nodded. "It was. It is dark out there, Dís. A darkness unlike any I have ever seen… there are armies in the dark, there are spirits stirring in the woods. I was afraid, we all were. Even the wizard was afraid. There is a power that should not be, and I dearly hope we halted its growth. We can no longer face the darkness alone, Dís… Dwarves alone are not enough…"

She was tearing her beard again. It pained him to see the dark strands of hair fall from her hands. He hated seeing her hurt herself. But he knew this was inevitable. He just hoped that the words spoken so long ago would resonate with her in the same way they had with her sons.

"Not for glory, nor riches, nor honours, but for freedom… I cannot say that I agree… that it would comfort me… that I wouldn't wish it had been different… But I think I… I can _understand_. I can understand why freedom _might_ be worth dying for."

Dís looked at him then, still unfathomably sad, eyes red, the remainder of her beard in tatters, but with steel in her glance.

"Nothing can make up for the loss of my sons, but I think I understand. I understand why they died."

They sat in silence, caught up in their thoughts, all of them dark. Acceptance was one thing, but it did not translate into forgiveness. The impact of the death of the two young princes remained as unfathomable as ever.

A knock on the kitchen door interrupted their reverie.

Dwalin was on his feet in an instant, dagger drawn. He wasted no time. As the second knock sounded he was already at the door, tearing it open and thrusting his dagger through the gap.

"Oh, will you stop it, laddie!"

Dwalin opened the door completely to reveal his brother standing in the dark. Balin's reflexes had not slowed with age, but in jumping back he had extinguished the small lantern he was carrying.

"You nearly skewered me. That's no way to treat your elders", he grumbled.

Dwalin snarled. Balin knew that it always took him some days to adjust when he got back after a long time on the road.

"What's your business here?"

"I wanted to check… see if you are, well… done…"

Dwalin snarled again.

"What do you expect? You think she is over their death in a few hours? They were her only family, Balin. Show some consideration!"

"Yes, yes… certainly. Mahal rest their spirits. But they died honourable deaths. There is consolation in that. They reclaimed our homeland. They achieved everything we set out to do."

Balin could be exasperating.

"They are dead. Give her time."

"They were buried weeks ago."

"For her, it just happened. At least give her the atkât."

"The Silence, the atkât, ends with burial, my dear brother. It's about preparing for the burial in body and in spirit. It's a time of contemplation when the grief is fresh."

"I don't need your lectures, Balin. She had no burial to attend. Her grief _is _fresh. Give her a day on her own." He did not win arguments with his brother. But he could not afford to lose this one. For Dís' sake he had to win just this once.

"There are urgent matters to address. We still need to discuss the question of succession. Dís is of the direct line of Durin, while Dáin is a descendent of Grór. He is also the younger of the two. Her approval is required."

Dwalin raised himself to his full height and crossed his arms as he glowered at Balin.

"A day."

"Oh, stop it, laddie. You better not try to intimidate me! Do not make me out to be heartless. I'm no elf! But these are important matters of state that you cannot possibly comprehend."

"A day."

"I cannot keep young Prince Thorin waiting forever. He is eager to advance these matters, for his father to fully and legitimately claim control of Erebor. It will strengthen our position considerably to have this rather unseemly matter resolved once and for all. She simply needs to renounce all rights to the crown."

Dwalin flexed his hands. He could tell that he was wearing his brother down.

"A day."

"Oh fine, fine, you insufferable pest. Have it your way! She has until tomorrow morning for her atkât. I will arrange for food to be delivered for Dís to break her fast. Come! I need you!"

Dwalin remained standing in the doorframe. He had no intention to go anywhere. Balin impatiently motioned for him to follow. He would not leave Dís alone. Understanding dawned on Balin's face and he rounded on his brother.

"You can't", he hissed, "You are in no state to stay here with her!"

Dwalin remained unmoving staring out into the night.

"You can't", repeated Balin, lowly, but urgently, "You know, you can't. What if she sees? What if she hears?"

"I won't sleep tonight." Why did his brother always take him for a fool?

"Fine, have it your way", Balin spat, clearly agitated, but trying to keep his voice down so nobody would overhear their argument, "You have one night. But don't you dare fall asleep, don't you dare!"

He stalked off and Dwalin watched his figure retreat in the darkness. Like he had any desire to experience that. Much less to have Dís experience it. What he had told her had already broken her heart. There was no need to show her just how dreadful the battle had been. How much it had cost them. No glory, no honours, no riches could make up for that. But freedom they had achieved. At least for a time. At least for some.

The cold night air was a balm for his lungs and his head. He stood for a while, just breathing and letting the wind cool his face. He heard Dís soft steps behind him and felt her hand on his arm.

"Thank you", she said simply.

They understood each other without words. Silence, atkât, indeed.

* * *

[1] The dwarven mourning prayer, curtesy oft he Dwarrow Scholar's excellent dicussion of death in dwarven culture. This story will mainly follow the explanations provided there. 2012/04/27/death/

[2] Argonui was Aragorn II's great-grandfather, 36th heir of Isildur and 13th Chieftain of the Dúnedain until his death in 2912. The words attributed to him here are an excerpt from the Declaration of Arbroath, a document written in 1320 to confirm Scotland's status as an independent state with the right to defend its sovereignty. To me, these words are very powerful, even outside of their original context, as I, much like Dís in this story, frequently ask the "why" question.


	4. Chapter 4

_Very sorry for the delay in posting... That pesky thing called life got in the way. I was traveling all over Europe for work and then had lots of catching up to do. To anyone checking back in with this story: Welcome back! Hope you enjoy Chapter 4! _

* * *

"Come inside, Dwalin. It's cold."

He knew she was right. There was snow on the ground. More flakes were lazily falling from the low clouds.

"Come. I'll make you some tea."

Tea. As if tea solved anything. As if tea absolved him from his guilt. As if tea would revive the lads. Dwalin felt he might spontaneously combust if he had to quietly sit down with yet another cup of tea. Grumbling something about gathering wood for the fire, he stalked off to the small outbuilding.

His sudden entrance startled the chickens and the nanny goat in her pen snorted in annoyance. He mechanically moved towards the wood that was stacked neatly along the far wall. Most of it was split already, but there were a few small logs sitting in the corner.

He roughly yanked the axe out of the chopping block. It was a heavy instrument, suitable for a family of blacksmiths. Dawlin handled it with ease. There were advantages to being the daft mountain of muscle.

He was splitting wood like it had personally insulted him. For a while he imagined that he was splitting the skulls of orcs. The skulls of those terrible goblin guards that had caused all of this. But that could bring him no comfort. He had killed too many already. The killing was the cause of his misery, not the solution. So he just worked with barely a thought. Splitting wood, throwing the pieces away, wielding the axe with practised, precise moves, putting all of his considerable strength into the work.

Dís smiled to herself. Dwalin truly was a member of the line of Durin. There had never been a lack of firewood in her household. In fact, she had often had her boys bring firewood to the older and poorer members of the community. Between that and supplying the hearths in the official halls within the mountain, there had still always been a surplus of chopped wood. Whether it was Thorin adjusting to life with his sister and small nephews, herself expressing her frustration with her role as a dam in a world that favoured males, Kíli venting his anger at the one or the other grievance or Fíli finding a sufficiently princely way to be an adolescent, there was always somebody chopping wood. Now it was Dwalin. The Durin temper, evident even in her stoic cousin who was usually silent and considerate outside of battle. Dís smiled.

That was a definite no for tea then, and actually, she agreed. Too much sitting around already. It was time to do something. The atkât she had now, until the next morning, and she intended to keep that traditional period of private mourning. Her grief still felt like a ravine that was engulfing her, covering her, crushing her. But it would not do to be stopped by grief. It would not do.

One more time. One more time of getting up and carrying on. She could not see a reason to carry on this time.

After the dragon, there had been her brothers and father to carry her along. In the dark days of exile, she had had her role as the only female of the royal line, the one that many of the dams looked to for guidance in these trying times. During the war, she had been a true leader of her people while the warriors fought. When they returned, she still saw her role as such and despite her grief, she saw others who had suffered more and required her help. When Thorin had stripped her of most of her duties to take on his own place as leader of their people, her fury had kept her fighting. That and the chance to build her own private life. Oh, Thorin had been furious. And her life with Heptifíli had been glorious. In all its simplicity and poverty, it had given her a drive and determination to build something for herself for the first time. When Heptifíli died, sadness had threatened to crush her for the first time. But that had not been an option. Her sons needed her. And she carried on.

Why would she carry on this time? Her sons were dead. Her brother was beyond her help. Her people apparently answered to King Dáin now. She did not know why she should carry on. But she would bridge that chasm when she got to it. Maybe Mahal had a reason for keeping her alive. Maybe he was waiting for her to find one. But Dís would go on. Would not stop until she herself became stone. Until she could finally join her family in the Halls of Waiting.

Time to pick herself up. Time to start carrying on. For whatever cause. If the furious noise of metal hitting wood was any indication, there might be a cause with her even on this very night. But for now, time to make sure her outside reflected the state of her inside.

Dwalin wiped his hands on his trousers once more. Sweat was dripping down his arms and from his forehead. It was obscuring his vision. He wiped his brow. No more wood. Nothing to do once more. He forced the axe down one last time, burying it in the chopping block. He would have to get that out again before he left Dís. For now, his arms ached in a pleasant fatigue, and his mind had become clearer.

He was still in his stocking feet and only now realised that his toes had become frigid with the cold water and mud he had stepped in on his way here. Time to go back inside. Time to continue with what he had started.

Dwalin felt himself shrink with every step he took towards the house. The warm glow of fire and lamp illuminated the window. He stood outside, squaring his shoulders, attempting to ready himself for the return to overwhelming grief. Not really a return. He carried his overwhelming grief with himself wherever he went. But a return to having to face Dís. He had to protect her. He had to be strong for her. He had to make sure he did not lose her.

Timidly, if a dwarf with his size, his reputation and his history could ever be timid, he stepped into the kitchen. He was just removing his soaked woollen socks from his feet when Dís called from the living room:

"I put some of Thorin's socks next to the hearth for you. There's water for a hot water bottle on the stove if you'd like one. I'll warm some mulled cider in a minute."

She sounded… different. She sounded like… Dís. If anything, this made him more timid as he approached the door to the lounge. It was warm and glowing in the firelight. And there was Dís.

She was sitting at the table, a lamp on either side of her, bowed over a looking glass, in her hand a small knife, around her strands of dark hair.

Dwalin froze in the doorway. Dís looked up. There was almost a glint in her eyes. But her face! Her face. She was cleanly shaven, making her look younger than she had in decades, almost a young maid again. Despite everything, she was not yet 180, in the prime of her life. But it looked so… wrong. So wrong to see a grown dwarrowdam with not even a shadow of a beard. And yet… it felt… right. This was the end of all she had known as an adult. The end of her life almost as much as it had been the end of their lives.

Dwalin felt a sting in his eyes that was not caused by sweat. Traitorous tears, so many tears today. Dís dropped the shaving knife and quickly gathered him in her arms. She pressed his head towards her bosom. It was an awkward embrace, their height difference very pronounced in this situation. But still… Dwalin felt he could breathe freely now.

His tears fell as she murmured soft words, stroked his hair and rubbed slow circles on his back.

Dís was so composed now. And he was _not_. How did he let this happen? Why was he not the one comforting _her_? Was he not the strong one, the _warrior_? And then again, that was the problem, wasn't it? That he _was_ a warrior. _The_ warrior who had killed _her son. _

"No. No. Don't Dís. Just don´t. I'm sorry. I shouldn't. You shouldn't… not me. I'm not… I was… Don't Dís. You don't want to. I… just… no…"

He struggled to make himself coherent, finally just waved her off as he took a step backward. But he could not… he could not leave as he knew he should… This was his duty. Dís was his duty. Despite everything. He reached out a hand. She nestled her face against it. Her cheek was so smooth. So different from her usual braided beard. Naked. Without protection. So different. So appropriate somehow to their situation. He wanted…

"I… Please, I want… like you…"

Dís looked at him, questioningly, but kindly. Then understanding dawned.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't. No. That's not right. I'm not family. I shouldn't."

He moved to turn away, but she caught his hands. Her grasp was soft, but he stilled.

"Dwalin… what I said earlier… about you being nothing to them… That was a lie. You have been like a brother to me, and you have been another uncle to them. You were there when Thorin was... busy being a royal. You were there when they needed you. You were there for them... at the end."

"I wasn't."

"You were. Who was their amradshomak[1]?"

"I was. But…"

"So you _were_ there. You were there for them at the end. You were _family_ to them. You have every right to cut your beard as an outward sign of your grief. Though there is no need… you clearly carry grief in your heart and _that's_ where it is most important. But if you want to… How about you sit down and tell me about your work as amradshomak? I would like to hear about their… about their funeral. And I could cut your beard for you while you talk?"

Dís was caressing his face now and Dwalin leaned into her touch. Why was she so kind to him? She wouldn't be if she knew… he should tell her, he really should. But how could he? To protect her… maybe to protect her he needed to not tell her… maybe he should remain silent… maybe he should just remain the good cousin. Maybe he could protect her in that way. Maybe this was right. Or as right as it could be anyways.

"Yes. Please. I would like that… I would like that… very much…"

Handling distraught warriors. If she was an expert at anything, it had to be that. So there was a reason to carry on, at least for the rest of the night. And tomorrow… she would bridge that chasm when she reached it. For now there was Dwalin. An obviously distraught Dwalin.

As she filled a bowl with warm water, she contemplated what she had witnessed. She had never seen Dwlin like that. Balin said he had broken at Azanulbizar, that it had been too much for the simple-minded young dwarrow, that that battle had unhinged him. Dís did not believe it. Dwalin had certainly suffered. Alive when so many of the older and more experienced warriors had fallen. Still strong when so many had been crippled. He had undoubtedly seen unspeakable horrors. Dís had attempted to speak to him about it, but he would not, would rather bear his burden in silence. She let him be, accepted that his healing lay in work, in exhausting his strength, in throwing himself in any battle he deemed worth fighting for good or for gold. Throwing himself back into the fire that had burned him, hardening himself like tempered steel.

Balin had told her about the recurring nightmares, had whispered about them as if they were a shameful secret, a testament of his younger brother's instability. Dís knew that many warriors had those battle dreams. She did not take them as a sign of weakness. Dwalin was neither weak nor simple-minded. He was not one to claim glory the way Thorin or Balin did. Dwalin was quiet, loyal and strong, not just physically. He had always been there for her. Unwavering. Stoic. With no regard for his own needs. What had changed now to make Dwalin show her his weakness? What had changed to make him suffer so much that he could not keep up his usual façade?

Dís gently brushed the coarse hair of her cousin's beard. It was tangled after weeks on the road. He rarely wore braids, both his hair and his fingers ill-suited to any delicate braiding. She brushed out his bushy moustache, the forked beard and the stiff sideburns. Grey threads speckled the dark mass of hair. They were no dwarrows any more.

Dwalin had closed his eyes. Dís' eyes rested on the fearsome scar that cut his right eyebrow in half. He had almost lost is eye to that wound. And his life to the ensuing infection. She did not want to think about what this day would have been like if he had succumbed to the wound back then. Her nimble fingers smoothed the scarred skin. He was here. He was with her.

She picked up a set of shears.

"Are you sure about this?"

A curt nod.

"All of it?"

Another nod.

"I could just shorten it. It would still be…"

A vigorous shake of the head.

She stroked her fingers through his beard one last time. It would be a loss to her. She appreciated the gesture, could see that Dwalin needed a way to express his grief just as much as she did, but it would still be a loss to her. She smiled, fondly remembering the warrior's crest Dwalin had worn in his younger days. How life changes us. How even our hair can chronicle those changes.

With a sigh, Dís raised the shears. First one handle of the moustache, then the other fell victim to the sharp edge, revealing Dwalin's lips, tightly pressed together. She cropped the two sides of his beard close to his chin, the forked ends one small resemblance between the sons of Fundin. She placed the strands of hair on the table, mingling with her own, then took to shortening the sideburns. Slowly, a younger Dwalin seemed to emerge behind all the hair. Still the same person and yet, a different face.

As she began lathering his face, she encouraged Dwalin to speak about his duties as amradshomak and about the funeral preparation for her brother and her sons. This would take a while. She might as well hear the rest of the story now.

Dwalin felt him relax as Dís' gentle hands worked up a lather on his face. He could do this. He had to give her that small consolation since she had not been present for the funerals of her family members.

"Balin… he was amradshomak for Thorin. It was all very proper. Everybody paid their respects and Balin guarded him. Everybody came. Bard the Bowman and the Men from Laketown. Dáin and the Dwarves of the Iron Hills. Beorn the Skinchanger. The Wizard Gandalf. Everybody came. Even Thranduil of Mirkwood. Everybody.

All the members of the company… they all stood guard right up to the funeral. He was never alone. Balin… he dressed him in the finest robes. A splendid armour. He looked like a king. He really was a king at the end. All his weapons are buried with him. His sword. He found that sword on the journey. An elvish blade… but still, it was of good make. A sword of Gondolin they said. Thousands of years old but still as sharp as it was the day it was made. It even had a name. Orcrist they called it, the goblin cleaver. Apparently it had belonged to some elflord once. Ecthelion or some such name… it was a good blade. A blade for a king. And he was… he was a king. Thorin was.

Balin made sure he was treated as one. The funeral… it was… it was special. The first big celebration in Erebor after so long. The lower levels were mostly intact. Thorin rests with his forefathers. It was all as it should be. Just not yet. Not when he was still so young. Not when he had just reclaimed his home. But Balin did everything right. It was really… a funeral for… for a king. Because he was. He was good at the end. He was what we had hoped for. Just not that way… not…"

Dwalin was breathing hard. It was probably the most she had ever heard him speak. Typical for him to highlight his brother's role first. To think of Thorin before all else. Dís looked at him with both sadness and fondness. He too had lost much.

"Thank you, Dwalin. Thanks to both Balin and you. Thank you for being there for my brother. I'm glad he had you with him at the… at the end."

She picked up the blade and for a while she worked in silence.

No place for talking when she was wielding a razor around his lips. When she paused for a short while, Dwalin spoke again. Best get on with it now that he had started.

"The lads… I carried them from the battlefield. I did not… I did not want anybody to touch them. They are no spectacle to be gawked at… They were… in quite a state… Kíli… Kíli was so broken. There was no resistance in his body as I carried him… his back… just… not there any more… Fíli, he was… there was so much blood. Just blood everywhere… So much blood!"

He paused and Dís seemed to regard that has her signal to continue with the shave, but he continued as soon as the blade left his skin.

"I bathed them so they could go to Mahal looking like princes. Not sure I did the best with Fíli's braids. My fingers are not Kíli's! And then I… well, I had to suture their wounds as well. I did not want… want Óin to do that…"

Sure you didn't. You did not want him to see. You did not want him to ask questions.

"I tried… the small wounds, they were quite easy… they both had many of those. Kíli… he had no big open wounds…"

Except for _that_ one. Not big, but mortal. And you stitched it shut like nothing had happened.

"But Fíli… I removed the spear from his shoulder. It had gone clean through. That looked alright in the end. Stitches too big, but I tried, I really did. His neck… that was bad… I'm sorry Dís… I'm sorry… I, I made a mess of it, I did. Under the armour, nobody could see it in the end… but I knew… I knew it was there and it was not good… I shouldn't have done that… I made a mess of that wound…"

He flexed his hands. Too big, too rough. Not enough. Only enough to kill. The only thing he was good at.

"I'm sure you did your best… and you know… sometimes it's not about how good the result is, it's about who does it… I'm glad you were the one who did that for him, Dwalin. I'm so glad."

A little smile fought its way to his lips.

"That's what he said, Fíli did. He said it wasn't important if it didn't turn out perfect, he just… he wanted it to be me who did it… Back when I gave him his first tattoo…"

"You did what? Dwalin! He was barely of age!"

"Humm… he …wasn't, actually… Not when… you know…"

"Oi! Watch it, you! Despoiling my little boy! You might not want to tell me that when I've got a blade at your throat!"

She pressed the little razor teasingly against his skin, just shy of hard enough to break the skin. Oh if she just knew… if she knew she would… She did not. Maybe she should not. Maybe he should just continue his tale.

"I bathed them and I dressed them… it was like they were dwarrows again… It was… not easy… but I'm glad I could do that for them…"

Dís squeezed his arm. No time now to get caught up in emotions. Go on.

"They looked like princes in the end. Just sleeping. I found a blue cloak for Fíli… you always said it brings out the blue of his eyes so nicely… so I thought… they got splendid armour as well, all from Erebor. Good, ancient armour. Glóin was… not happy… thought it was a waste… but… it's not, you know. It's good, because it's for them. They should look like princes. They gave everything for Erebor… for us… it's the least we could do… I staid with them the entire time… Balin said I should not, I should somebody else keep watch… but I was their amradshomak, I couldn't just leave them… they were just lads… they should not have to be alone… I cleaned up a bit, I did, before the funeral, but I did not leave them."

Balin had probably been right. But the consequences his decision had had for his own health seemed to be naught compared to remaining with the lads for as long as possible.

"We buried them on the second day after the battle. Right after Thorin. It was smaller. Not as official. But still… they had touched many lives… especially Kíli… even the elves knew him and knew him fondly… many mourned for them. Really mourned. We buried them together… I mean, really… I hope that's alright… Óin said it wasn't right, that dwarves should be buried alone… But… we bury the dead with their treasures… They had their weapons. And they had each other. We buried them with their hands linked. It seemed… right. We gave them the harps as well. A symbol of their joy and their spirit. Buried with all their treasures. I hope that was… alright…"

He really hoped it was. The razor scraped across his skin as Dís worked in silence.

What if she had preferred a more traditional burial? He had really pushed for things to be done the way they had. What if he had messed up? What if he had just added more grief to her suffering? At least this one thing he should have done right…

At last Dís put the blade aside and gently washed his face, then patted it dry with a soft cloth.

"Thank you, Dwalin", she said simply, "I'm so glad. They will be a joy in the Halls of Mandos. I'm sure their forefathers were not prepared for the riot these two cause. I'm glad, Dwalin. I'm so glad they had you."

* * *

[1]Guard of the Dead, borrowed from the article on dwarven customs surrounding death written by the Dwarrowscholar.


	5. Chapter 5

_Fair word of warning: This is NOT a nice chapter, particularly the middle part that's written from Dwalin's point of view. War with all its consequences. Emotional trauma, physical injuries, death. No in-depth graphic details, but not glossed over either. Morally very ambiguous (or downright cruel and inexcusable) decisions._

_If you do read it, I would very much appreciate your views on it. This chapter presents some key ideas that I wanted to write about. I'm not entirely sure if No Sacrifice should stop here or continue._

_Again: Proceed with caution (and maybe with a tissue)._

* * *

The two faces in the looking glass looked only vaguely familiar. Tired eyes in bare faces. No grown dwarf should look so vulnerable. No grown dwarf should _be _so vulnerable. Those were their faces now. Dwalin and Dís. United in their nakedness, united in their grief. It might not be traditional or even proper for a mere cousin of the deceased to display his grief like that, but Dís was glad that Dwalin had joined her in this. Of course she would have done this alone. But it felt good to not be alone. Somebody still cared. Somebody mourned her boys even when the world seemed to have moved on already, onwards to a new royal family, a new leader, a new prince. Nobody would ever replace her princes in her heart. Dwalin's bare face next to hers seemed to suggest that he felt the same.

Her eyes met his in the glass. She smiled weakly. There would be talk. There would be raised eyebrows. Like it mattered. Neither of them was used to widespread approval. She had rarely pleased her brother; Dwalin rarely seemed enough for his. Both of them had learned long ago that opinions were something to be acknowledged, but in no way their responsibility. It looked like Dwalin would follow where she led. Now she just needed to decide where she wanted to lead him.

First and foremost towards a drink, she decided. She could use something to take the edge off her pain. And Dwalin certainly looked like he needed a drink. Poor Dwalin. Pain, grief and guilt had worn him down. Maybe he had had too much time to think about it all. Maybe she would crumble like that in a few weeks time. For now, the pain was enclosed in her heart, at the centre of her being, but no longer overwhelming her. There were things to be done.

Mulled cider. Mulled cider first and foremost. Dís busied herself with the steaming, fragrant liquid. She chose the two largest mugs. Much needed in these circumstances.

Dwalin nodded his thanks and then sank back into his reverie. For once, he did not immediately down his drink. His hands clutched the mug as if it would help him to steady himself. Something was wrong. Something more than being the harbinger of bad news. She decided to give him time.

Dís waited. She was not sure what she was waiting for. But she was good at waiting. She had waited for many people, her grandfather and father, Frerin and Thorin, Fíli and Kíli, Heptifíli and now Dwalin. Carrying on with life, but always alert and ready to change everything at a moment's notice. After all these decades, it came naturally. Thorin had assumed that that was just the nature of dwarrowdams. That was not true. There were many things she wanted to do. But they were usually not conform to the role she was supposed to take and could only be achieved by less overt methods. And that meant waiting.

"It should not be that way," Dwalin finally croaked.

She gave him a questioning look, still touched by how young and lost this new, beardless Dwalin looked.

"It's not natural. None of this," he elaborated, sweeping his arms in an all-encompassing gesture, "Parents, they die. And grandparents. Siblings even. And spouses. They die. But children do not die before their parents. No, not children."

She almost laughed at that. He was so naïve! It took her a moment to push those unhelpful thoughts aside before she answered.

"That's not true, Dwalin... This is a dwarrowdam's reality. Children don't die before their parents… that's what you warriors tell yourselves… that's your reality. Only because you go and get yourselves killed before your sons get a chance to do so. Fathers may not bury their sons, but mothers do. Just look at our line… Nál buried Náin. Bara buried Dáin just four years after her husband, and with him she buried her grandson Frór. Just think of your own grandmother. Gridr was still alive after Azanulbizar and knowing that your father had been a burned dwarf almost broke her[1]."

Dwalin twitched at that, after all those years still so sensitive whenever Fundin was mentioned, but Dís continued.

"Children die before their parents. This is the dwarrowdams' reality. You go off to war. We are the ones who are left behind. We are the ones who make sure you have a home to come back to. And once those few of you who return make their way back to that home, we fall silent again and let you be the heroes. This is natural, or so you tell us."

Seeing Dwalin's wide eyes, Dís almost regretted her speech. He was not Thorin. On the contrary. Dwalin had always treated her as an equal, and often more than that. But still… he did not understand what it meant to wait. To wait when you knew that the only things you were waiting for were death and destruction, if not now then after the next battle.

"I wasn't… I didn't… I didn't mean… I'm sorry, Dís."

"Don't be. I just… want you to know. This is reality. There is nothing special about me. This is what your wars do to us. I'm the only one here this time… but I mourn with the dams of the Iron Hills, with the women of Laketown and even with the elven ladies of Mirkwood. We are the ones your wars leave behind."

There was a long pause. Then Dwalin's eyes found hers. Stone grey and Durin blue.

"I won't leave you behind."

She smiled sadly and patted his hands that were still clutching the mug of cider.

"Sure you won't, Dwalin, sure…"

"I won't. I'm… I'm tired… tired of war… though I don't know what else there is…"

Now that was a surprise. Dwalin, the warrior. Dwalin, the hothead. Dwalin the maniac. Dwalin, the most feared and respected fighter in the Blue Mountains. That was an unexpected development. Dwalin had worked in the forge, Dwalin had sat through diplomatic meetings, Dwalin had always taken particular joy in training the youngest dwarves, but in his heart he had always been a warrior. If even he was tired of war… Maybe there was hope yet for the darkness in this world. Maybe.

"I don't know, Dwalin," she answered truthfully, "That might not be a choice you can make… there might not be much of a choice… I don't know what else there is."

And she truly did not know. But she could hope. Maybe she could hope.

"Where do we go from here?"

"For now we go to bed. It is late. We can figure out the next steps tomorrow. Let's go to bed, Dwalin."

She showed him to Thorin's chamber and while he hesitated, he did not refuse the room. No sentimentality, Dís chided herself. It's a room, not a shrine. Her brother had been gone for months, had been dead for weeks. Keeping his bedding untouched would not bring him back. Might as well make sure Dwalin was comfortable tonight.

She undressed and brushed her hair before braiding it in a simple plait for the night. It was strange to not brush her beard. There was no more beard. Her smooth cheeks felt strange. Thorin would have let his beard grow out now that the mountain had been reclaimed. She had never seen him with a long beard, King of the Longbeards though he was. Now she was the Queen of the Barecheeks.

As she lay on her own bed, she found herself reluctant to go to sleep. She was tired. Her mind and body equally exhausted. But this would be the end. If she fell asleep now, there would never again come a day when she still believed that her sons were alive.

Every morning from now on she would wake up as the mother of dead sons.

Mother of Fíli and Kíli.

Fíli and Kíli.

Dead.

* * *

He could not fall asleep. He could not do that to Dís. He did not need Balin to remind him. He would not do that to Dís. Especially not after that. Not after what she had told him. He would not bring the war to her. Not to Dís. He wanted to protect her. Even from that. Even from himself. Especially from himself. He could not fall asleep. He would not fall asleep.

He would just lie down for a moment. He needed to stretch his leg. A long day in the saddle followed by walking and standing and sitting. His leg hurt. All thanks to the elven healers. Óin had told him that there was no hope for his leg. The wounds too deep, the infection too bad. Once the funerals had been over, too much time had gone by without anyone having a look at his injuries. No hope for his leg, no hope for his life. And then he woke up from his fever and still had both, life and leg. He had been disappointed then. They had told him that the pain might never go away, but he did not mind. The pain would never go away. He did not need a mangled leg for that. He had been disappointed that he still had his mangled life. But here he was, bad leg and all. Still alive. Still here. Still trying to make up for what he had done.

He slowly took off his clothes. After weeks in the wild, they desperately needed a wash. He piled them on the stool in the corner. For now, undergarments would do. He sifted through his pack for a somewhat clean set. His muscles protested at the continued bending over. He straightened up, just in his loincloth and assessed his body in the dim light of the lamp. It had been weeks since he had been able to gauge the damage. Some of the new scars were beginning to fade to a pale pink. The larger ones were still an angry red. Some deeper scratches and cuts that were only now healing completely. Some had cut through his existing tattoos. He would let Nori have a look at those, see if he could come up with ways to salvage the geometric patterns and to disguise the damage that had been done.

He tentatively felt along the rugged scar on his right side. No way to disguise the shape of that one. It felt like every single tooth was permanently embossed in his flesh. His fingers traced the rough imprint of a massive jaw. That warg had taken a good bite out of him. Not quite as much as the two that had mauled his leg, but still. He was still amazed that there had apparently been no internal damage done. Maybe his muscles had been good for something for once. Somehow they had been knitted together again. The tender scar strained as he stretched to drop his grey undertunic over his shoulders and he hissed softly between his teeth.

Quiet. He was only too aware that Dís was only separated from him by a thin wall. He had helped Thorin put it there, decades ago, when his sister and nephews had moved in with him and the sleeping chamber had to be split in two. Not much privacy. He had not envied Thorin that.

Still, for all his efforts to keep this from Dís, he could not suppress a sigh when he finally stretched his legs out on the narrow bed. He still had some of the fragrant salve that soothed his aches somewhat. Óin had grumbled about flowery elven nonsense, but it brought Dwalin some relief, so he was happy to overlook its origins. He rubbed it into the aching muscles, patched together and knobbly where the wargs had torn off great pieces of flesh. The sweet smell of the salve made the tension in his shoulders vanish and helped him relax.

He leaned back onto the soft pillow. He would just lie here for a moment to give his skin a chance to absorb the ointment. Then he would put his breeches on and sit up to keep his watch for the night.

Just a moment.

He thought about the events of that day. Their arrival. Dís reaction. Balin. His own reaction. Shaving their beards. He brushed his hand over his jaw. Smooth. Less hair than even Kíli.

Kíli.

Mud and blood splattered over his sorry excuse of a beard. Colourless lips in a pale face. Dwalin stroking his face. Trying to be there, trying to show him that he was not alone.

Kíli.

Pleading. Voice soft in the din of the battle that had moved away from the little hillock they were on. Fíli, he asked, Fíli. And Dwalin could only shake his head. No Fíli, not any more. The broken look in Kíli's eyes. Broken like his body.

_I cannot move, Dwalin. My legs are just not there. My arms, they prickle, but I don't think I can move them. I have no strength, Dwalin. Why can I not move? Why is my body like that? It hurts, Dwalin. It hurts. Make it stop. I don't want to be like this. _

Knowing just by the way his body was curved that there was no hope. Feeling down his spine just to make sure. Feeling where the morning star had struck, had crushed, had torn everything in its way. Beyond help. Kíli might not feel it, but Dwalin could. The hardness of his belly. The signs that more damage had been done internally. More than the healers could fix.

Kíli read the truth in his eyes.

_Where is Fìli, Dwalin? I want Fíli. I want him to be here. I cannot do this without him. I want my Fíli. _

He had never been alone. They had never been separated for long. His brother had always been there. The two young princes, never alone. Fíli and Kíli. It was like one name. Fíli and Kíli, always together. The shock in their eyes every time they had been split up during the quest. Fíli refusing to leave his brother, always refusing to leave his brother, until he couldn't refuse any more. And Kíli saw, and finally he understood. Understood that his brother was not coming back for him.

_Thorin. I saw Thorin fall. Thorin is dead. And Fíli. Why Fíli? He was Thorin's heir. He was supposed to be king. And he was supposed to be with me. I was supposed to support him. Mum said so. Keep supporting your brother. I did Dwalin, I really did. Why did he leave me? Why did he leave me all alone?_

No answers. Only questions. His king was dead. His prince was dead. His other prince lay dying. Dwalin did not know the answers. He never knew the answers.

_I want to leave, Dwalin. I want to run away. I can't be without Fíli. I want to go. I want to run away. Help me. Help me run away._

It was futile. Kíli's muscles did not answer the commands he gave them. Dwalin could shape his limbs like a doll's. There was no resistance. The determined look in Kíli's eyes turned to despair.

_Gandalf can heal me. Or the elves. They can fix me. They can make my body work again. Right, Dwalin, they can do that? They can heal this? Dwalin, say they can do that?_

Elvish medicine and a wizard. That had to count for something. Gandalf. Gandalf was their hope. Gandalf could make Kíli better. His body, and hopefully his mind too. There was hope. There was hope for a while.

Then the certainty. Certainty that Kíli could survive. That the damage done to his insides could be healed. But what was gone, was gone. He would not regain the use of his limbs. Active Kíli would never run again, never string a bow again, never even whittle away on a piece of wood.

A long silence. The laboured breaths of the young dwarf in his arms. Sweat on his brow.

_I cannot be King under the Mountain. I cannot even sit up. I cannot rule Erebor. I cannot even control my own body. How can I be king?_

Assuring him that he would be a good king. And Dwalin believed it. Kíli did not.

_No, I would be weak. There would be others. There would be Dáin. Some would support him. Some would support me. There would be more fighting. I don't want to fight any more, Dwalin. I want to run away. I want to be with Fíli. _

That was the point when time stopped. When everything stopped. When Dwalin could only hear his own heavy heartbeat, could only feel the frantic fluttering of Kíli's pulse. Life. Still there. Still alive.

Back in time. Back to that first time.

The war against the orcs, fighting deep beneath the misty mountains. He was young then. They had been in battle. Once more there had been no winner. But they were resting now, resting in a big cave. He was helping his uncle tend the wounded. There were many. Gróin was looking after the worst cases. He needed Dwalin, needed his strength to carry them, to hold them down when he amputated limbs, to remove arrowheads stuck in bones. They had run out of poppy milk long ago. Now strength was the sedative. Not like most of these warriors would need sedation for much longer. Even without training Dwalin could see that many would not last through the night. Not under these conditions.

Shouts. The orcs were coming. Trolls with them and all sorts of devilry. Get up, move, run, faster. But they could not move. Gróin's patients could not move. The healer argued with his cousin the king.

_We cannot move them. _

_We cannot hold this position. _

_We have to carry them. _

_We cannot spare the warriors to do that. _

_We cannot leave them. _

_We cannot take them. _

_The orcs will torture them. _

_There is nothing we can do. _

_We cannot leave them for their sport. _

_Then make sure they give no more sport._

_I have no poppy milk left. _

_You have your weapons._

_I cannot do that, I'm a healer! _

He_ is no healer._

_You cannot mean…_

_We have to move and we cannot leave a dwarf to torture. This is my order._

With that the king turned and strode away. Everyone was moving, everyone was shouting. The noise of the fight echoing in the cavern. Hold them back a little longer, move the camp on, rouse the weary, run.

In the middle of it all, time stopped. Gróin faced his nephew. Pleading eyes.

_Please Dwalin. They are my patients. I cannot leave them to be tortured. Please._

There was no time to think. There was no time for alternatives. Even now the fight at the far end of the cave was turning against the dwarven fighters. How could he fail his uncle? How could he disobey his king?

He took as much time as he could with each of them. He asked Mahal to let their spirits sleep. He prayed that Mahal could call upon their spirits despite the lack of a proper burial.

At least they were in a mountain.

At least he made it quick. He could do that. He could make it quick.

_Make it quick, Dwalin._

His father was begging him. Azanulbizar. The great battle. The battle without end. The battle with a victory that felt like defeat. So many lay dead. More still lay dying. He had searched the battlefield for a long time before he had found his father.

Fundin lay dying. A cruel cut had opened his abdomen, intestine spilling from the wound.

There was no hope. Fundin knew it. Dwalin knew it.

His father screamed in agony. His hands had torn great trenches in the ground around him, blood and mud on his fingers. Blood and mud in his wound.

_I will find Gróin._

_There is nothing Gróin can do. _

_Maybe there is something._

_There is nothing. I don't want him to see me like this._

_What can I do? Tell me how I can help you?_

_Make it quick, Dwalin. Let me go._

So much blood and suffering that day. So much. And in the middle of it all, time had stopped. Just Dwalin and his father. They said their goodbyes. Dwalin cradled his father's head in his hands and pressed a last kiss on his brow.

He could make it quick. A sharp blade was all it took.

Mahal, let his spirit sleep.

Kíli's eyes.

Pleading. Begging him. Yearning to be with his brother. Yearning to be whole again.

Kíli's eyes.

Closed.

* * *

"Noooo!"

Dís was woken up by Dwalin's scream. She was out of bed in an instant. The grunts and groans were barely muffled by the thin wall that separated them. She quickly lit a lamp and slipped out of her room.

Her cousin was writhing on Thorin's narrow cot. His muscles were taunt, body so tense that it looked like the massive dwarf was about to snap in two. Sleep must have caught up with him before he even had a chance to put on his breeches. His teeth were bared, gritted as if in pain. Sweat dripped from his forehead. But his eyes remained closed.

He had fallen asleep after all. He must have been exhausted indeed to let that happen. It was unlike Dwalin to let his guard down. But she was glad that he had, here in the comfort of her house rather than among his traveling companions. Battle dreams. They caught up with them in the end.

She knew better than to approach him in this state. She had learned that lesson long ago after Frerin had nearly strangled her when he was caught in one of those dreams.

She knew that the warriors would usually throw a boot at their comrades to wake them up, but that struck her as cruel. Instead, she remained standing in the doorframe and began to sing softly. Just a nonsense lullaby she had often sung to her boys, but the simple tune felt calming amidst Dwalin's distress.

"Hush-a-bye, baby, lie still, lie still, your mother's away to the mill, the mill; Baby is weeping for want of good keeping, Hush-a-bye, baby, lie still, lie still.

Hush-a-bye, baby, you're fine, you're fine, your father's away in the mine, the mine; Baby is weeping for want of good keeping, Hush-a-bye, baby, you're fine, you're fine.

Hush-a-bye, baby, breathe deep, breathe deep, your brother's away with the sheep, the sheep. Baby is weeping for want of good keeping, Hush-a-bye, baby, breathe deep, breathe deep…"

With a shout, Dwalin's eyes snapped open and he sat up with a start. He looked around wildly and took a moment to orient himself. Then his eyes fell on Dís, still standing in the doorframe, singing softly.

"Dís! No!"

"Hush, Dwalin. Do not fret. You are safe now."

"I am… safe."

"Yes, Dwalin. Hush."

He was obviously still agitated and shaken from his dream. Battle dreams. Plight of the survivors. Dís yearned to take Dwalin in her arms and gently rock them like a small child. She knew she could not banish the monsters of his dreams the way she had been able to banish the balrogs under her sons' bed. But she could not bear to see such helpless despair and sit by idly.

She moved to sit next to her cousin to comfort him, but he rose up hastily. He seemed to have trouble balancing, as he swayed alarmingly, before catching himself and towering above her, glowering.

"I'm alright."

"You are not. You are not _alright_."

"That is not a choice I can make, Dís. I _am_ alright... I have to be. This is me. I _am _alright. Always."

He gave her a sad smile and turned away, but she caught his arm.

"Out there. Yes. Out there you have to be alright. You are the guard, the warrior, the hero. But in here, in here you are Dwalin. And you don't have to be anything. You are not _alright_ and that is fine. All I want you to be is Dwalin. Just this once, just for me, please be just Dwalin. That's all I want."

She raised herself upon the tips of her toes and pressed a kiss on his forehead.

"Just... Dwalin..."

* * *

[1]As Dís was the only female dwarf Tolkien ever named, I took some liberties here with the lives and names of the women of the house of Durin. For me, Nál (needle) is the wife of Óin and mother of Náin; Bara (wave) the wife of Náin and mother of Dáin I and Borin; Gridr (peace) is the wife of Farin and mother of Fundin and Gróin (and therefore grandmother of Balin, Dwalin, Óin and Glóin). All names are of Nordic origin, just as the ones Tolkien used. Many male dwarves did indeed die early and violent deaths, so it seems reasonable to assume that many sons were survived by their mothers.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello from sunny Scotland!  
It's been nice and warm here for days with more sunlight hours than we experience throughout the entire month of December and I go and write about snow. Apparently I'm missing the cold and dark already! Thanks so much for reading, folks. According to my stats, 50 people viewed the last chapter. Nothing by fanfiction standards, but yay, I'm excited about every single view! Special thanks to the four who reviewed. Just speak up and let me know what you think, the good bad & ugly. I'm a complete beginner, but keen to improve my writing and that's mighty difficult to do on my own.  
Anyways, hope you enjoy Chapter 6, a friendlier one. Hooray for friendship!_

* * *

The rest of the night had been quiet. They had sat down in the lounge again. Both had been lost in their thoughts, but drew strength from each other's proximity. Eventually, Dwalin had fallen asleep again. Dís had watched his even breaths for a while before she herself closed her eyes. Sleep had come surprisingly easily once more, testament to her exhaustion.

It was still dark outside when she woke and Dwalin was still snoring softly. She had dreaded the moment when reality came crashing back to drown her, but it never came. Sleep had not dulled her awareness of the deep pain she carried. Sleeping or awake, it remained the same. She revelled in the warmth that surrounded her. The fire had nearly gone out during the night and she could feel the cold air against her bare face. Her body was warm, nestled as she was against Dwalin who seemed to exude heat, just as she remembered it from their wandering days when both of them had been no more than dwarrows. The brightly coloured patchwork quilt covered both of them.

Slowly she wriggled her way out from underneath the blanket, carful not to jostle Dwalin or alert him to her movement. After what she had seen in the night, he could probably use all the rest he was able to get. Poor Dwalin. She still wondered what sort of demons were hunting him so relentlessly.

Dís slipped into her clothes, wrapped herself in a warm shawl and put on her wooden clogs – made by Kíli – and opened the kitchen door to make her way to the privy. The stars were slowly fading and the first sliver of light could be seen in the East. The East that had taken her entire family. Somewhere yonder, there were the Misty Mountains, there was Erebor. Dís shivered.

It was cold, but the cloudless sky promised a clear day. Her feet crunched the freshly fallen snow. Her house was on the hillside giving her a good view of the entire settlement nestled in between the arms of the mountain. The small houses were covered with a fresh dusting of snow. Some inhabitants were already awake and had stoked the fires, so small wisps of smoke made their way from stone chimneys towards the sky. Beyond their protective wall, the outline of snow-laden pines could be seen in the dim light of the encroaching dawn. An idyllic scene, one that she had always loved. This had been her haven. Life had not always been easy. In the first few decades in the Ered Luin, the dwarven colony had lived in bitter poverty. They had known hunger and the odd skirmish with wolves or goblins. Nonetheless, for a warlike people in an increasingly volatile world, this was peace and harmony. How ironic that such a perfect day was bound to experience so much discontent.

There would not be much peace and harmony today. As much as she wanted to hide herself in the depth of the mountains to mourn in solitude, she knew that she could not afford such luxury. There was an entire community waiting for her. She was not the only one grieving the loss of the other three Durins. There were the daily affairs to be seen to. And finally, there was the matter of succession that would undoubtedly have to be discussed.

She chuckled to herself when she opened the door to the outbuilding and found that Dwalin had indeed split all the wood. He had also embedded the axe deeply in the chopping block. A true Durin temper, that one!

While she scattered feed among the chickens, Dís contemplated her next steps. Her atkât was over and while she would not be expected to fully participate in social life again so soon, undoubtedly there would be somebody delivering bread and eggs soon, the traditional meal to break the fast after the atkât. After that, she would have to show her face in the town and see to affairs in the great hall. The community had to see her, to be reassured that she was still there and not that much had changed. Despite everything being so different from what it had been a mere day ago. Then there were the dwarves from Erebor that she needed to properly welcome. She wanted to talk to her brother's other companions, but knew that Dáin's son would probably take much of her time up. She was not sure what his presence here actually meant. That was it then. She would have to find out. Ideally before she was in any danger of committing a faux pas. She would have to find out what had happened after her hasty departure from the town square the previous afternoon.

She strode off, not down the hill to the main rode, but towards the uphill end of her property, along a small path that was scarcely visible beneath the snow. It led towards another small stone house that was dwarfed by the enormous barn next to it and stood amidst a cluster of smaller outbuildings. A few cows turned their big, beautiful eyes towards Dís as she slid through the large wooden door. Clattering could be heard from a small chamber at the end of the barn. Dís could see a stout dam with a shock of tightly curled black hair pour milk from a large iron milk churn into smaller containers that were sitting in robust square baskets. As the dam lifted one of the baskets onto a low cart, she noticed Dís standing in the barn.

In a flurry of skirts and apron, she flew towards Dís and hugged her fiercely.

"Oh Dís, there are no words. No words at all. How absolutely horrible!"

Dís let herself relax into her friends embrace for a moment. But soon she gathered herself together again.

"It's alright, Rúna. I'm… alright…"

"Nonsense. How could you be? Here. Have a seat and tell me what I can do to help you."

Dís was pushed down on a bale of hay and faced the scrutiny of Rúna's charcoal eyes.

"Oh look at you, jewel, not much sleep tonight, eh? And your poor face!"

Dís self-consciously stroked her naked chin.

"Not that. Look at your forehead. What happened there?"

"I just… ahh, it was nothing. Stupid really. I was…"

"Grief hurts, it sure does. Let's see. Nothing we can't fix in a jiffy. Some arnica will work wonders on that!"

"Dwalin already…"

"Ah, did he now. Good lad, that. Now, anyways. How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

Dís shrugged.

"Sad. Empty…"

She looked up helplessly. Tears were in Rúna's eyes as she pulled her into another crushing embrace.

"Oh Dís, Dís… I cannot even imagine…"

Even though Rúna was older than Dís by almost two decades, their children were of an age. Both of them had been widowed a long time ago, a shared fate that had drawn them even closer together. Thankfully they did not share this latest experience.

"Did they tell you anything?"

"Dwalin said there was a battle… and that they died as heroes…"

The older dwarrowdam huffed.

"Not much consolation, that. The mountain has really been reclaimed then?"

"Aye, that it has."

"Right… word in the town was that it had been."

"What happened after I…? I'm sorry that I just… left…"

"Now don't you worry none. Perfectly sensible, that. All good as far as can be. I put those Iron Hills folk up in the guest rooms in the mountain. That haughty young one, Thorin you said? Him and two of his father's councillors and two guards. Mahal knows why that young lad cannot take care of himself. They are all in the mountain, all nice and proper. I made sure to bring over an evening meal and a good barrel of ale. Now our own lads, they will always have a place wherever they go. Glad to be back home, they were."

"Who came back? I didn't even…"

Rúna turned back to he work, effortlessly distributing milk from the heavy pail while she spoke.

"Balin, obviously. Oh you should have seen him, he was fuming at the ears when Dwalin just spirited you away. Glóin. He was glad to be with his family again, he sure was. And young Ori. He just came to retrieve his and his brothers' things. No family here, the poor lad. I just took him home with us. Still snoozing away, the poor wee scrap. Even tinier than when he left here, if you ask me. And he's hurting something fierce, sure is."

"I have to talk to him… he was there… and… ach, I don't even dare to think about how many people have been affected by their deaths…"

"Easy now, Dís, easy. You just come up to the house with me and we'll have a spot of breakfast, all of us, as soon as the bairns are back from their milk rounds."

"I can't… Dwalin… he invoked the atkât for me…"

Rúna was visibly taken aback by this, but recovered quickly.

"Did he now, did he… well done, that, well done indeed. So what are you doing here then? You should be in your own halls, treasure! That's what it's all about. Atkât is the silence and you should not be bothered by folk, not at all."

"They are going to bring me the bread and eggs soon and then… I just wanted to know what the situation is like before I go into the mountain."

Rúna shot her a concerned glance before she answered.

"No good, that's for sure. They didn't give us any explanation or anything. But everybody knows about Thorin and the lads. There's the wildest stories flying around. About an alliance with the elves and all sorts of nonsense. But Dís, everybody is heartbroken. Such terrible news! And worried they are, all of them. Not sure what's happening now, without Thorin and all. Right worried they all are. But I said to them young ones last night, we still have our Lady Dís and she has never failed us. But Dís… that young Thorin boy… he seems to think himself a prince, that's what Balin called him as well… and Ori says his father, some Dáin, that he calls himself the King under the Mountain."

"Does he now… I was afraid he would have his fingers in those matters…"

"Well, that's nonsense now, surely. You are Thorin's sister after all! Queen Dís, now that's got a ring to it! And all in my milking parlour!"

"Don't, Rúna… it seems that a dam is not good enough for the high lords now… it seems that a second cousin is now closer to the direct line of Durin than a sister."

"Mahal! Surely not! They can't do that now, can they?"

"Not without my signature, they can't. I guess, that's why Thorin is here…"

"Ha! Like you are ever going to sign that! Fools, the lot of them!"

Rúna harrumphed and moved an empty pail across the room with more force than necessary. When she noticed Dís' silence, she turned sharply and put her hands on her hips.

"You are not, are you?"

Dís sighed.

"I don't know, I honestly don't know."

"Dís, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór, you look at me now. Don't you make any decisions that you'll come to regret. You are grieving now, and no mistake. Sure enough, you don't want to do nothing right now. But don't let them fancy councillors and all get the better of you. That crown is yours and you know it."

"That crown has taken every last member of my family… All of them died for that crown. If you ask me, I don't want to touch it with a set of forging tongs!"

"Ah, diamond… but they died for that crown… and you want to give it away?"

"I know… either way… it's not right, is it?"

"Difficult decision, difficult… Hear them out first, those iron heads. And then you don't let them rush you. You take your time to decide and don't put your name under anything! We've made do without a King under the Mountain, we can all wait a bit longer for him… or for a Queen under the Mountain!"

"I'll try…"

"You do that. And no matter what you do, lass, we've got your back. You hear me? The Ered Luin knows what a fine dwarrowdam you are. There's more important things than some pesky crown."

Dís had to chuckle at that.

"Right you are, Rúna. I'll head into town around mid morning. Could I ask you to bring some lunch to the great hall around noon? Nothing special… we are in mourning."

"That we are. We all are, Dís. I'll see to it. No bother at all."

"You are a treasure."

"Any time, gemstone, whatever you need."

"Thank you… I needed… this…"

They hugged again and Dís breathed deeply. The sweet smell of the fresh milk, the fragrant scent of the hay, the musky earthiness of the cows. Familiar aromas that told of normality and friendship and the hope that there still was some good in this world.

* * *

The first light of dawn was just creeping through the windows, when Dwalin woke. Asleep again. Hadn't he done enough damage already? At least this time he felt rested and relaxed. That earlier episode had been terrible. He should never have brought the war to her like that. He should not have fallen asleep at all. He would have to apologise to Dís.

Dís! He sat up with a start, ignoring the pain that flashed through his side and his leg. She had been next to him when he had fallen asleep. Now she was not. Calm down, he chided himself. She will have gone to bed. Just because you useless lump decided sleeping on the sofa was a good idea, does not mean decent folk want to do that. And certainly not with you there.

He shivered as he stood. The fire had almost died. He had not thought to see to it last night. Negligence. Carefully, he blew into the embers to rekindle the flames, and then added more wood. Soon enough he had a merry fire going again.

He washed in the kitchen before getting dressed and combing his hair. Strange to not be brushing his beard. His jaw felt prickly with stubble. Unusual, but not uncomfortable, he decided. He was thankful that Dís had let him join in with her mourning. And yet… he probably shouldn't have. He had no place there. He felt like an intruder.

"Hammer and coals!"

He cursed loudly as he opened the kitchen door only to stumble over a basket that somebody had left right on the doorstep. He caught himself on the doorframe and snapped his mouth shut. Eejit. Now he had woken Dís. Like she did not deserve every minute of sleep she could get. Of course somebody would have brought over the traditional meal to break the fast after the atkât. Well, they had better hardboiled those eggs!

Fortunately, the eggs had been boiled and showed no sign of damage. The eggs, as well as the loaf of bread, were still warm. Lucky really, in that cold weather. He might as well see about breakfast then. He stoked the fire in the hearth and put the kettle on, before heading for the privy. The sun was rising in the East, and the town showed signs of waking. Thorin's house had a strategic position on the hillside and offered a clear view of the main streets where a few industrious dwarves were already going about their business. Now if they would just keep minding their own business for the rest of the day.

He brewed a strong tea and set the table. A plate and mug for each of them, a tub of butter in the middle and a large pot of tea. Some sugar, cause Dís liked it sweet. Last, he unwrapped the contents of the basket. Plenty for the two of them. Bread and eggs. Eggs as a symbol of life. He should not even be allowed to have those. Life. The irony. He only took lives.

"Dís," he called, "Good morning!"

No answer.

"Dís," he called out again, "Breakfast is ready!"

Still no answer.

He knocked softly at the door of her room.

"Dís, you alright in there?"

Eejit. Of course she was not alright.

"Dís, can I come in?"

Her silence was beginning to make him nervous. She had every right to be angry with him. If she did not want to see him, he would leave straight away. He just had to make sure that she was… well, that nothing was physically wrong with her.

"Dís, I'm coming in."

He slowly opened the door, steeling himself for whatever was waiting for him on the other side.

Nothing. No Dís. Bed neatly made. Not a sign of her.

"Mahal help me," he breathed. He had driven her away. She had been so distressed yesterday. And then he had… She had seemed quite composed to him, but then he had been in no state to judge. How long had she been standing there? What had he said in his battle dreams? What had he done? Had he… oh no… Mahal…

He turned on his heel and ran out of the house, not heeding the cold of the snow on his bare feet. Useless eejit. The wargs should have killed him.

He went to the outbuilding first. No Dís.

He ran around the house. No Dís.

No Dís anywhere.

Where could she have gone this early in the morning? He ran half way up the hill before stopping himself. Think, Dwalin. Where would she go? What would she do? Think! What if it had all been too much for her? He should have been there for her, but no, he went and fell asleep. She needed him and he was not there. Why? Why could he not do something right for once? Mahal only knew where she had gone.

She must have despaired. Understandable. They were all dead. She was the only one left. And he had left her alone. And now she was gone as well.

He had lost her. His last… his only…

"Morning, Dwalin!"

He spun around, wide-eyed, as Dís strode towards him, wrapped in a woollen shawl.

"What are you doing up here? At least put your boots on, bit cold to go barefoot today! Dwalin?"

Her voice rose in concern as Dwalin staggered and swayed alarmingly. Quickly, she closed the distance between them and grabbed his arm to steady him. Dwalin just stared at her.

"Dís," he finally rasped, "I though… I'm sorry… I shouldn't… I'm so sorry… I thought… I thought I'd lost you!"

Understanding dawned on her face.

"Oh, Dwalin! No! I was just over at Rúna's! No, Dwalin. Look, I'm here. I'm here now. Shh, Dwalin, I'm here. Breathe. No need to get yourself all worked up. I wouldn't, Dwalin. Not even now. I wouldn't. All good. All good, Dwalin."

She was here. She was healthy. She was alive. He had not lost her. Dís was still here.

Arm in arm they walked down to the house.


	7. Chapter 7

_A bit shorter than usual, but I did not want to split the meeting unnecessarily, so today it's only the run up to it. Much of the next few chapters has been planned out while I was out in my favourite bookstore (Leakey's in Inverness, google it, it's magnificent) and then hill-walking in the fog which gave me plenty of time to think about plot developments. Now all I need to do is write those chapters! Until then, here's Chapter 7. I hope you enjoy it, including the little peek at an old acquaintance near the end._

* * *

They took their breakfast in companionable silence. So different from the breakfasts Dís used to have around this table. Her boys squabbling, dreaming up some sort of competition for even such mundane things as buttering their bread, and Thorin bellowing for silence as he attempted to focus on his correspondence, to make plans for the day or simply to have a civilised adult conversation. Their living arrangement had come about by necessity rather than desire, but in the end they had been… a happy family of sorts. Dwalin did not need to be here with her, but Dís was glad that he had chosen to stay with her a little longer. She had had many meals on her own over the past months and it had never bothered her, but she knew that today would have been different. She was glad for Dwalin's company even if he was silent and sombre.

After breakfast, Dwalin went over to the house he occupied with his older brother to collect a clean set of clothes from his chest. He returned swiftly, wearing a fresh tunic and impressive furs that further accentuated his considerable size. His mood had been dark before, but now it had worsened considerably. He was glowering as he roughly threw his boots on the rug by the door and stalked into the lounge.

"Fools, all of them, damnable fools," he grumbled.

"Care to elaborate?" prompted Dís, but Dwalin took a moment before he replied, pacing briskly and baring his teeth in a snarl.

"All of them, all over the streets, can't take a step without treading on one of them. Have they got no work to do? All standing around and whispering, looking and pointing and… asking _questions!_"

He spat the last word as if it was a particularly nasty insult. Dís raised her eyebrows and tried to insert a voice of reason.

"They _did_ just lose Thorin, and Fíli and Kíli too… and you _did_ just return after months and months, bearing news not only of their deaths, but of the reclamation of our lost kingdom… I believe they have a reason to be curious!"

Dwalin was not to be appeased. "Just the way they… I understand if they, you know… but it's not that… they want to _talk_ to me…it's like they think I'm some sort of _hero_!"

Dís almost rolled her eyes at that. Oh Dwalin… He had never shown any understanding for the magnitude of his deeds. Dwalin just followed, he obeyed commands and carried out orders. He just did what was needed and did not think anything of it. And he ended up being a better worker, a fiercer fighter than all of them without ever noticing. And a more loyal and caring friend she amended. He was that as well. And without ever realising just how good and how unusual he was.

"You did just kill a dragon…," she dared to point out.

"That was Bard's doing! We had no hand in that!"

"You defeated an army of orcs…"

"We were but one small band of dwarves among thousands!"

"You won back the treasure of our forefathers…"

"A small enough part of it! And it was dearly won… too dearly…"

Dwalin continued to mutter and snarl. To distract him from his scorn of the townsfolk who dared to admire his achievements, Dís enquired after his brother. Probably not her smartest move, she realised as Dwalin scoffed. "_Him! _Slimy rat, Balin. Nasty little creature… He wants you to attend a _meeting! _With him and the others from the company and with… _them. Today_! At noon!"

Dís sighed. "Of course he does. I was waiting for his invitation. There is much to discuss it seems…"

"But not now… not… you are still… You can't!"

"There are things I need to do."

"You need to rest, you need some peace!"

"Do you abandon your fellow warriors in battle when you receive a wound? No, you don't! And I won't either. I have no desire to attend this meeting today. But it is my _duty_."

That seemed to be a language he understood. He still groused, but his anger had dimmed.

"I'll come with you. I won't leave you to these… ink-twisters…"

"I was rather hoping you'd say that," Dís smiled. "Have a seat. I'll get ready. We leave in half an hour."

That would be early. But she predicted a slow journey through the town to the mountain, interrupted by many who wanted to commit the unfathomable crimes of speaking and asking questions. She would have to keep Dwalin on a short leash.

* * *

Dwalin hesitantly took a seat. Really, he only did it because his leg was still hurting him. Sitting down was a relief. He would be with Dís whatever the day brought. Nothing nice, for sure. He reckoned they would not just offer their condolences as would have been right and proper. Curse them all. Sometimes he wished he was living amongst hobbits. Polite little creatures, for all their shortcomings. Not dwarves. Certainly not those dwarves. They would want to talk politics. He just wished Dís would not have to do this. Wished she would not have to fight this battle. She was right. It was bound to be a battle. She should not have to fight it. He wished he could do it for her. He knew he could not. But he could at least be there with her. He knew that was important. Not being along. Facing an evil together. An evil like Balin and those Iron Hill dirt diggers.

His breath caught in his throat when she emerged from her chamber. She was dressed for battle. No armour, no weapons, but obviously ready to fight in her own way. Her garb was tailored of a heavy dark blue material, trimmed with the fur of a white wolf, fastened with a large belt of brushed steel. Her dark hair was flowing freely over her shoulders. A dwarrowdam she was, but the image of Durin nonetheless. She peered into the looking glass, gave a small nod of satisfaction and began to braid with nimble fingers. Just two simple braids, one on either side of her face. Thorin's braids.

He stood, watching her tie the braids. When she turned, he bowed.

"Lady Dís, I'm at your service."

"Don't tease Dwalin…"

"I'm not," he replied earnestly. "I wish to pledge my service to you."

She hesitated for a moment, but then smiled slightly and grabbed his arms.

"And I gladly accept it."

"And I… take these…"

He reached into the neck of his tunic and withdrew a thin leather cord he wore around his neck. From it he removed two hair clasps. No magnificent workmanship and slightly tarnished, but when he held them out to her, he knew he was offering a special treasure.

"Are these…? Oh… they are… They are Thorin's!"

Dís picked them up gently, caressing the metal. Dwalin hoped he was not causing further hurt. There had been other clasps, more fit for a king, in Erebor. Balin had chosen those for the funeral. But it did not feel right to leave these behind. Old and tarnished as they were, they had been with Thorin for a long time. Dwalin had kept them as a tangible memory of his friend, the just leader he had followed for so long, not the gold-crazed king. He had not planned this. But it felt right. These clasps belonged to Dís now.

She carefully fastened them to the end of her braids. She stood taller now.

Now there was a sight! The heir of Durin herself.

Not much remained of the shaking, crying dam he had held in his arms less than a day before. She looked so much like Thorin, a beardless, younger version of him. Seeing her like this, Dwalin silently renewed his pledge to the direct line of Durin. He would support her to whatever end, just as he had supported Thorin.

They left the house together. The sun shone from a brilliant blue sky onto the snow-covered town. Still too many dwarves with too little accommodation having been carved out of the mountain. It had been slow work and usually the manufacturing of trade goods had taken priority. Underground there might have been somewhere to hide. But here… here they were soon faced with the same curiosity he had encountered earlier that morning.

"May Mahal rest their spirits," called white-bearded Ai from across the road.[1] "I would have given all the remaining decades of my life for them to live!"

Dís thanked him politely.

Brothers Austri and Vestri were next, coming entirely too close for Dwalin's comfort, insisting on clasping arms with Dís. Fat merchants, gone soft over too much food and paperwork. He growled at them before they could think about getting any more familiar. But they paid him little heed and prattled on.

"Thorin, now there was a leader if ever there was one. And Fíli was shaping up so nicely, too. They showed so much wisdom! The Ered Luin has been so prosperous! Business has been good. Very good trade relations Thorin had forged. Such a good life for all of us… And now? Oh now, what will we do?"

"I assure you, Master Austri, that I am well-acquainted with the trade agreements. He would not risk the prosperity of our people and made the necessary arrangements before his quest. Thorin's death will not endanger your business. On the contrary. With the threat of the dragon eliminated, I hope to further develop our trade."

"Ah, it gladdens my heart to her that, Lady Dís. These are terrible times for all of us. We all feel Thorin's death! He will be much missed."

"He will be, Master Austri. But I will do my very best to continue to strengthen the interests of the Longbeards in the Ered Luin and beyond."

"Now that is more than good enough for me, my Lady. Just as canny as your brother, you are. A formidable trait of the line of Durin. May your beard grow swiftly!"

The next was a young dam with two small boys clinging to her coat. She actually had tears in her eyes when she expressed her condolences.

"I'm so sorry, Lady Dís, so sorry for your loss. We feel for you, all of us do. It will never be the same, not without them. It feels like every single hair of my beard is being torn out by its roots. I cannot even imagine how you must feel! They were the life of the Ered Luin. It will never be the same!"

She actually had the audacity to embrace Dís, causing Dwalin to step in. That earned him a stern look from Dís as the two little ones started to cry. Wimpy children. He had not even drawn his axes. No good could come of letting such over-familiarity pass. But Dís remained ever patient and polite.

"Oh what handsome boys you are! And growing ever taller. I think I can almost see the beginnings of a beard here, young warrior! I remember when my boys were your age. I'm sure you keep your mother busy."

"That they do! Ah, I hope they will grow up to be half as fine dwarves as your lads were. I remember Kíli bringing over the firewood for us last winter when Niping had been injured in that accident in the mines… Oh what will we all do now, without them?"

"Everybody will be well cared for. There is no reason to worry. We may have suffered a loss, but we are still a community."

"I know, Lady Dís. As long as we have you, we have nothing to fear. You have always been like a mother to us all."

And on it went. One after the other expressed their sadness and their fears, and Dís did her best to listen, to calm, and to help anybody who claimed he needed her to. Dwalin was growing more and more anxious with every conversation. Dís had reprimanded him for scaring people away with his glowering. Well, he'd be cursed if it had worked one bit. They kept coming up to bother Dís. Asking questions, telling their own stories, just generally making a nuisance of themselves. There were many stares, but at least no nosy comments about her lack of a beard. At least she did not have to face that. Nevertheless, he could see Dís' shoulders starting to sag before they ever reached the town square. He hovered even closed. He would not let these nitwits distress her even more.

A stocky, red-bearded young fellow was next. He seemed nervous and bowed deeply. At least somebody was remembering his manners.

"May Mahal grant their spirits rest! Please accept my condolences. May your beard grow ever… ehm… longer. Thorin… he was great. At the kingly things. I wish to be a warrior as great as him one day!"

"I thank you for your kind words, Gimli, son of Glóin."

"I wish I had been there," it burst out of the dwarrow. "I could have helped and then we… well, they wouldn't be dead now. I could have gone on that quest. I wanted to go with them, to be with Fíli and Kíli. They were like brothers to me. And I would have stayed with them in the battle, I would have defended them!"

The lad had no idea of the realities of war. He had not even been bloodied yet, if Dwalin remembered correctly.

"I appreciate your concern, Gimli. With time, you will get the chance to prove your worth."

He certainly would. Too many young dwarves had already died in battle, too many more would follow. The stupidity of the young who looked forward to their first kill and most likely ended up being killed instead.

"You have my axe! I will defend you!"

A ghost of a smile passed over Dís' face at that. "I'm sure that will not be necessary just yet, but I thank you for your loyalty."

"My father was always loyal to Thorin. We are the line of Durin and we stick together."

He gave Dwalin a nod that was probably supposed to show strength and understanding, but looked rather like a nervous twitch. Maybe he would become useful in the future, but for now he was an inexperienced and rather headstrong child. Dwalin wondered what would become of the lad. He only hoped he would not follow his friends too quickly. To battle, to glory, but in the end to nothing but their deaths.

Finally, they seemed to have crossed the sea of talkative dwarves. They exchanged one last look before Dwalin thrust open the stone doors of the great hall for Dís.

To battle. To glory. But hopefully not to more deaths.

* * *

[1] Names are taken from the Nordic sagas. Ai = great grandfather, Austri = East, Vestri = West, Niping = pinch


	8. Chapter 8

_Apologies for the delay! Things have been a bit challenging for me lately, but I hope there will still be somebody reading. If one person enjoys this chapter, that's at least one achievement for me this week which means it has all been worth it! At least that's what I've been telling myself ;)  
_

_I have also recently posted a little one shot called "Farewell" about Thorin and Dís' goodbye. That just really wanted to be written. Have a gander at that little scene and please tell me what you think!_

* * *

So this was it. Dwalin was opening the doors to the hall. Beyond those doors her future would be decided. A future that she would spend in the Ered Luin or in Erebor, as an ordinary widow or as Queen under the Mountain. Dís straightened her shoulders and drew herself up to her full height. She had no idea which of these paths she even wanted to tread. She could not yet fully grasp which options would even be available to her. But whatever was to happen in this meeting, she would not be cowed by an assortment of warriors and councillors. She would decide her own future.

Eight figures stood in the hall. When she entered, Balin was talking to Thorin, a nervous looking Ori at his side. Two dwarves in full armour were shadowing Thorin, undoubtedly the bodyguards Dáin had felt were necessary to mind his son. Glóin stood in a small group with the two other visitors from the Iron Hills, one very large, with a beard that rivalled Glóin's in its bushiness, the other elderly, almost frail looking with a white beard and moustache. Dís did not recognise them.

They turned around sharply at the intrusion. All eyes were on Dís. Appraising. She let them have a good look before she moved forward. Tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed she knew she looked the part of the heir of Durin. She had carefully chosen her clothes to accentuate her status as a member of the royal line, even though she had precious little interest in great formal robes and usually dressed no richer than any other dwarf, mainly concerned with the practicality of her garments. She was confident that she needed neither jewels nor weapons to show that she was not going to quietly crawl away and leave the fortunes of the Longbeards in the hands of whoever thought they had a right to be sitting on the throne or to be standing beside it. If this was to end in battle, it would not be one that could be won by axe, sword or bow.

"Ah, Lady Dís. It is truly good to see you."

Balin strode towards her. He was looking at her intently, concern in his eyes, searching for whatever it was he hoped to see in her – Strength or weakness? Defiance or resignation? Insanity maybe? Whatever it was, his tone was warm and polite. He too was robed in particularly fine garments. Dís was glad to see that she was not the only one who thought it an occasion worth dressing up for then. After all it was not only her future, but that of all the Longbeards, their allies and their enemies as well.

They clasped arms. "Welcome back to the Ered Luin, Balin. Thank you for coming in person."

"It is an honour. I just wish I would not have returned bearing such news."

Dís nodded in acknowledgement and agreement, but she quickly moved on. This was not a time to dwell on her grief. It had been difficult enough to face the mourning people out on the streets. She could not allow the emotion to well up here, where she was supposed to be strong, decisive and in control.

Balin introduced the visitors from the Iron Hills. She knew Thorin, of course, even though she had not seen him since he had been a small child. She had not been impressed with him then, a weak boy, too pampered to join in with her own sons' games, too aware of his status to want to play with children he considered to be of lower rank than him. If anything, she was less impressed with him now. His handshake was weak. Obviously, Dáin had not seen it fit for his precious princeling to spend time in the forge. His eyes were blue, but seemed unnaturally small in his featureless face. He looked disinterested and his tone was flat as he rattled off greetings from his parents and their condolences. It was obvious that he had been forced to memorise the words. He was richly dressed and his fingers had been squeezed into a multitude of heavy rings. Dís noted the fine workmanship of the ornamental breastplate he wore. He found herself musing that an armoured back might serve him better for he seemed unlikely to face a foe, but even less likely to be fast enough to run away.

Next in line was the elderly councillor, who went by the name of Svigur. He looked even frailer up close, probably quickly approaching his third century. It seemed a miracle that he had been able to brave the long journey through the wild in such inclement weather, but he looked quite hale. Svigur sported a truly magnificent white beard and moustache that were arranged in three sweeping curves on either side of his face, all combining and ending in a perfectly circular curl. His dark eyes were kind and full of warmth as they clasped arms. "It is the greatest pain to bury our own children. I would not wish this upon anyone," he said and something in his tone told Dís that he spoke from experience. A father who had had the misfortune of surviving his child. Svigur, son of Svidrir, a kindred spirit.[1]

Next in line was Hrungnir. Dís had to control her thoughts very carefully when she laid eyes upon him. Otherwise they would have turned to the sort of unhelpful and certainly not kind descriptions that she had always chided her boys for. But she certainly had to concede that Hrungnir had never known hunger. His girth truly was impressive. What little was visible of his face behind his bushy beard was red and there were pearls of sweat on his forehead. As soon as he introduced himself as the son of Motsognir, Dís knew that she would have to be careful around him. She had never seen him. She had never seen his father, but she certainly knew of him. A rich merchant whose greatest bargain had been the wedding of his daughter to Dáin Ironfoot. Hrungnir was here on a special mission and she would have to be careful not to make him her foe, for Thorin was his sister-son.

The two warriors, Ivladi and An, were quiet and polite. They bowed deeply, offering their services, and returned swiftly to their spots on either side of Thorin. They seemed to keep a wary eye on Dís, which made her aware of Dwalin, who had apparently appointed himself her own bodyguard and was hovering slightly behind her, no doubt glowering at the two warriors. A bodyguard was probably quite appropriate now that she was a contender for the throne of Erebor, but she would have to have a word with him about not intimidating those who could be her potential allies. While her brother had without doubt appreciated Dwalin's help in alienating all those around him, her approach to diplomacy was slightly different.

After introductions had been made, Dís also welcomed the remaining members of her brother's company. She had often worked with Glóin, yet another cousin, who was an excellent trader with an uncanny sense for finances. She suspected that he had returned to ensure that the transfer of assets from the Blue Mountains to Erebor would go smoothly. She was surprised, therefore, at the depth of emotion in the usually brusque dwarf's face when he offered his condolences. "No parent should have to bury their child," he grumbled and Dís could see him swallow hard. She was about to offer him the same rebuke she had given Dwalin the night before, but stopped herself when she realised why Fíli and Kíli's deaths had such a profoun effect on her. Gimli. His own son and close friend to the young Durins. Gimli, who had been devastated when Thorin would not allow him in his company. Gimli, whose youth might have rescued from meeting a fate similar to that of her own sons. She caught Glóin in a tight embrace. Parents did bury their children. They made those who did not have to suffer that fate uncomfortably aware of their privilege. Glóin might have returned to the Ered Luin to supervise the transfer of assets, but Dís now doubted that it was just gold and silver that he had in mind.

Last in line was Ori. He probably would not have approached Dís at all if Balin had not gently pushed him towards her. The young scribe reminded her of an oversized squirrel, his eyes wide, the slender body shaking with anticipation. It pained Dís to see him so nervous. She had been friends with his mother and had always been fond of her youngest. He was close in age to her own sons, but had only recently joined their circle of friends as Fíli had become more interested in academic subjects and made sure that the studious boy was no longer constantly at the receiving end of pranks. She made sure to welcome Ori back with particular warmth. He mumbled his greetings and offered his condolences. There was no doubting his sincerity, but his anxiousness was evident, as he shuffled his feet and tugged at the sleeves of his knitted jumper. With a squeeze of his arm, Dís released him, but he turned back at the last moment.

"It should have been me. I'm so sorry. They were all warriors, and I'm… I'm not… and it really should have been me who died. I'm sorry," Ori whispered so low she could hardly understand him. An alarming blush spread across his features.

"It's not always the best warriors who escape death, Ori," she said. "I for one am glad you did not die."

"But…," his voice was so high now, he sounded like a small child. "I should have… I'm not… your sons…"

"I grieve for them. And I would have grieved for you, Ori. You have no less to live for than they did."

Dís could tell her words were not making a difference. Ori slunk away defeated. One more name to add to the list of those who blamed themselves for Fíli and Kíli's deaths. She was relieved to see Dwalin put a hand on the young scribe's shoulder, even though Ori jumped in surprise.

After everyone had been welcomed, they settled down for a light lunch along the big table in the middle of the chamber. As there were only ten of them, they only occupied two sides, the parties from the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains facing each other over the food presented to them. On the South side, Thorin occupied the middle, flanked by Svigur and Hrungnir, as his two guards took the outermost seats. Dís settled opposite him. On her right side sat Balin and next to him Glóin took his seat. On her left, Dwalin found his place before dragging Ori down on his other side. The armies were assembled, her diplomatic warriors all heroes of the reclamation of Erebor, but more importantly utterly loyal to her deceased brother. Dís could only hope that they would prove to be equally loyal to her.

They took their lunch mostly in silence. There were a few compliments on the food, but conversation did not come easily. A young boy was pouring tea for everyone, only to be brushed aside brusquely when he got to Thorin.

"Is there no proper ale in this molehill?"

The serving boy was startled and looked at Dís in alarm.

"It is not customary for us to consume ale before the start of a meeting," Dís replied with measured politeness. "But I can have some brought for you, if you desire."

Judging by the looks Svigur cast at his young charge, alcoholic beverages while discussing important matters were no more customary in the Iron Hills than they were in the Blue Mountains.

"You seem to think me a common miner," Thorin sneered. "I would have expected more from your hospitality than a piece of bread and a cup of chamomile."

Dís took a deep breath and smiled politely. It was a rather obvious attempt to irritate her and she would not give him that satisfaction. True, towards the end of winter their stores would often run low, but this year they had been doing well and the meal Rúna had prepared was more than nourishing enough with butter, cheese and ham, as well as some pickled vegetables to go along with the bread.

"Travellers are always made welcome here, no matter their occupation," she said. "Particularly when they are family members… _cousin_."

He scowled. "I can see why they wanted to escape this place. Even a dragon must be better than squatting in these hovels. Most of your people don't even live in the mountain!"

Hrungnir snorted in amusement and agreement at his nephew's outburst, but Dís found it difficult to control her anger. They had worked tirelessly for many decades to ensure everyone had a good life in the Ered Luin. She remembered this place as a collection of tents surrounding a mineshaft. This spoiled little snob had no right to discredit the achievements of her people!

"Now, now, laddie, there's no need…," Balin said, but Thorin interrupted him, hissing "You will address me properly!" Balin feigned deafness at that and concluded, "None of our current homes are Khazad-dûm, but hopefully we will soon be able to work together to restore to its former glory a home that should be fit for all of us – Erebor!"

And with that, it had been mentioned, the real reason they were all here together. Erebor, the Lonely Mountain. Matters of state were to be discussed, matters of succession. A succession that Dís dreaded.

The plates were cleared away and Dís sent away the boys who had been serving them. Then she requested a complete retelling of the events leading up to the reclamation of Erebor and from that point until the departure of the dwarves around her a few weeks ago. Dwalin had told her about some aspects, but she wanted to gain a full understanding of everything that had happened since her brother and his company had left the Ered Luin. Balin and Glóin took turns recounting their adventures, with Ori occasionally adding details. The longer they spoke, the more amazed Dís was that the company had ever managed to reach the mountain in time. Hobbits and wizards, trolls and spiders, orcs and wargs, woodelves and lakemen, so many creatures made an appearance in the tale and most of them seemed to harbour no friendly intentions towards Thorin Oakenshield and his quest. Dís listened intently, asking for clarification of some of the more intricate points. Much of the events seemed to be new to their visitors as well. Svigur was paying careful attention and raised questions at several points and while Hrungnir was not taking active part in the conversation, his eyes rarely left the speakers. Thorin on the other hand made no attempts to conceal his boredom, picking either his teeth or his fingernails.

The dwarves from the Iron Hills started contributing to the report very late, just before the retelling of the battle started. At least Dáin had headed Thorin's call for aid that time, unlike his refusal to support the quest when there was still a chance of a dragon guarding Erebor. Old alliances seemed to be less fickle when there was no dragon involved.

Once again, Dís heard about the battle, the death of her sons whose corpses were carried back to the mountain. The death of her brother who succumbed to his wounds shortly afterwards. Her already battered heart felt like it was being beaten on an anvil. To hear it all again amounted to torture. There were fewer details this time around, but the fact remained that this was the story of the end of her family. Even her brother had left her, after all these decades of facing the evil of this world together. All of this for a long abandoned mountain. All of them dead for this wretched crown.

"At least he was himself in the end. The dragon sickness had no power over him. He was at peace," Balin concluded.

"The madness had been upon him. The gold had driven him into insanity by the time we arrived. Just like Thráin and Thrór before him, he could not handle the power of the gold," Svigur said.

Dís could well imagine the rage with which Thorin would have greeted that assessment of his mental state. Alas, he was not here now, he had succumbed to the curse that lay on their line. Only his little sister was here. His little sister who could not feel whole without him by her side, who could not attempt to copy him. She was not Thorin. She had never been determined to reclaim their ancient homeland. She had no need of it, even less now that it had claimed the last of her family. But she would not let this pass without comment.

"In sickness or in health… he died King under the Mountain. I am glad of it!," she said. Might as well cut straight to the heart of this mountain. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. At some point she would have to face it, the question of the crown. "Who was left in charge of Erebor when you left the Mountain?"

"Dáin Ironfoot, as the commander of the dwarvish forces took over management of Erebor after Thorin's death," Balin said. Obviously. But she might as well state where Dáin's rightful place was for all that it was worth. Might as well see where alliances lay in this question of succession.

"I shall thank him for his service. I'm sure that Dáin makes a fine steward."

"Steward? How dare you, despicable dam?" Thorin shouted, but his voice was just about drowned out by Hrungnir thundering, "He's no steward! Dáin is King under the Mountain!"

Dís watched their rage with some amusement. Both had jumped up and their faces had turned red. Hrungnir was crashing his fist on to the table to accentuate his words. The two guards had jumped to attention at the sudden turn in the formerly sombre mood. Ori emitted a little astonished squeak. Dwalin stood as well, crossing his arms and towering over all those present.

"Calm yourselves," he snarled, "You are in the presence of a lady."

Dís was by no means uncomfortable. She just watched the scene unfold. It was incredible how much discontent one small word could bring after so much tiptoeing around the topic. Balin and Svigur attempted to calm the others.

"Now, lads, let are all just settle down. There is no need…"

"I will not have _her_ insult my father!"

"There was no insult intended…"

"How dare she!"

"Enough!," Dwalin roared in a voice Dís had only ever heard him use when he was breaking up a tavern brawl. Or a fight between her sons. "Sit!" They did so, albeit hesitantly, eventually shrinking under his fierce glance. Last of all, Dwalin resumed his seat and nodded towards his brother to continue. Balin cleared his throat.

"Of course Dáin cannot assume kingship by default. It would be against our most ancient laws. We have always considered the direct line of Durin first and foremost. However… in the aftermath of the battle, in the chaos that reigned and the confusion that Thorin's death had created… A council of elders in the dwarven forces dealt with the matter. We were concerned with keeping order in our own army and to maintain the links with our new allies. We judged it wise to not divulge the secrets of our rules of succession to outsiders. There has been no coronation and Dáin does not sit upon the throne, although he is called king at the moment. We were in need of a signal of stability and continuity to all those assembled at Erebor."

"Do not concern yourself with these matters unduly, Lady Dís," Svigur said, "It is merely a formality."

"A formality?" asked Dís sharply.

"Aye," said Svigur, producing a scroll from one of his wide sleeves. "All has been prepared. Your full statement indicating that you lay down all claim to the throne of Erebor, swear never to claim your birthright and gladly pass the crown to Dáin, son of Náin, for him and his line to rule from now on until the end of the race of dwarves. It is for the best of the Longbeards that you do not burden yourself with the crown, especially not in your current grief."

Dís looked at him and the parchment he held in astonishment. She had expected a fight, a battle of wits and words, but she had not expected to be presented with her own abdication in quite so brusque a manner. Had not expected to have the words written out for her as if she was a child. That seemed to show little regard for her as a person, or, for that matter, for the direct line of Durin. They seemed to simply expect her to meekly go along with whatever fate their council had decided for her. This was confirmed when Svigur put quill and inkwell in front of her.

"Simply sign here, if you would, please," he instructed, bowing politely and pointing at the space at the bottom of the scroll. Balin and Svigur had already signed as witnesses.

Dís took a breath to steady herself, then looked up at the old dwarf across from her. His smile was kind and genuine, but withered under her glare. Next to him, Thorin was gloating openly, his teeth bared in a wide grin. Hrungnir was leaning back in his chair, smiling, hands folded atop his bulging middle. The guards at least had the courtesy to look slightly on edge. Letting her gaze drift to those on her own side of the table, she encountered a terrified looking Ori next to a furious Dwalin who appeared to have crushed his mug between his fingers, every muscle taunt and ready for whatever fight he might imagine there could be. On her far right, Glóin's eyes were fixed on her, imploringly. Last, she looked at Balin, her cousin, and undersigned witness of her abdication. He at least had the good grace to look somewhat embarrassed as he lowered his head and spoke softly.

"Please, Dís. Just sign it, lass."

She let her eyes wander around the table again and then stood, grasping the quill. She watched Thorin lean forwards eagerly while the older dwarves relaxed in their seats.

"No," she said, snapping the quill between her fingers and watching their eyes widen. "I will not. I will not sign anything until I am convinced that it is for the best of our people."

* * *

[1]Dwarf names, once again, are all Nordic names keeping with Thorin's tradition. Svigur = wise, Svidrir = calmer, Motsognir = battle roarer, Hrungnir = brawler, Ivladi = bowman, An = sword


End file.
